Ultimatum
by Lake of Rage
Summary: Steven Stone is forced to hurt Brendan, whom he considers a best friend, in order to save 22 lives. Steven doesn't believe that he deserves forgiveness. May is unpleased by his pessimistic attitude. Contains established Hoennshipping (May/Brendan); rated for violence and occasional swearing. Based on ORAS.
1. Prologue: Confrontation

**A SEVERE ANGST ADVISORY IS IN EFFECT UP AHEAD!**

_...okay, I'm done now. Seriously, though. I don't care whether or not you usually pay attention to authors' notes. You absolutely must know that this fic? It is ANGSTY. And I mean, like, SERIOUSLY FREAKIN' ANGSTY. Be prepared for a LOT of sad stuff up ahead, and be aware that, although there will be a happy ending (I'm too much of a sap for much else), Steven and Brendan will have to EARN their happy ending._

_In less depressing and much less relevant news (seriously, this doesn't matter; you can skip to the chapter now), I just beat AlphaSapphire! *cheers* Actually, it was quite amazing. And by that I mean that it's my new favorite Pokèmon game and possibly my new favorite game of all time. Steven in it was just HAWT! Yes, I do think that Steven Stone is hawt. And no, I will not spell "hawt" in any other way when referring to a person, even if that person is animated. For those who actually care, I also find Chrom from _Fire Emblem: Awakening _and Descole from the Professor Layton franchise to be hawt._

_Oh, yeah. I need a disclaimer. Um... I don't own Pokèmon; if I owned Pokèmon, why would I be writing fanfiction? And, obviously, I don't make any money off of this, or, believe me, I would NOT be aiming to be a teacher. Those guys get tormented by obnoxious kids for a living._

_With all that ridiculous nonsense out of the way, please enjoy! Or... um... I dunno, it's too angsty for "enjoy." Please think that it's good writing...? No, that's not right, either... ...Ah, forget it. Please enjoy!_

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><p><strong>Prologue: Confrontation<strong>

Steven Stone was _not_ easy to unnerve.

Anyone who knew him could attest to that: May ("You? Lose your temper?! _Pfah!_ You're as cool as a fair number of cucumbers!"); his father ("Don't lose it, Steven. Although I suppose I don't need to tell you that."); Sidney of the Elite Four ("Ya beat me! Ya got some potential, pretty boy!"). Even random people knew; even Bren—

_"Steven, please! Nng—no, stop, please—_**aaah!"**

With a growl, Steven turned sharply on his heel and stalked toward the opposite wall.

Multiple sets of eyes tracked his movements as he restlessly paced back and forth, some pairs squeezing in a wince with each vigorous _click_ of his shoes. Nurse Joy watched him warily, fully aware of his status and wondering dully what she'd do if he tried to abuse his power. The other occupants of Rustboro's Pokémon center simply stared, dumbfounded. They knew Steven. He was the heir of Devon; _everyone_ knew him, especially those who'd seen him around town before he'd moved to Mossdeep. Anyone worth their salt could tell you that he wasn't supposed to _get_ upset. The Stones were known to be stoic, even in the most tense of situations. Whatever could get the most blasé of the bunch so worked up would have to be pretty bad, right?

Steven raked his fingers through his damp hair, marveling at how disheveled it had become, and offered a cursory glance to the clock. _1:58_ it flashed back at him. Hopefully, he'd have a bit more time before May found him; he'd fled halfway across Hoenn before she could get there, after all. _(He just wanted to get away from that damn hospital; away from the condemnation of the doctors' gazes.)_ Then again, who was to say that she'd even come looking? Sure, he was frantic to escape the incriminations he expected her to shoot at him. That didn't mean she was frantic to shoot them. More likely, she'd celebrate not finding him upon reaching the hospital to see Bren—

_"Please, just stop! Please, Steven; I won't tell anyone, just please—_**aaaaah!"**

His hands fisted and he felt his scalp tingle as strands of his hair were tugged out of place. Exhaling harshly through his nose, he turned again, only now noticing that he'd stopped mid-stride. So, what, he wasn't going to be able to think his name now without having a flashback? Hn. How fitting. Surely Bren—_"No, please!"_—**his friend** would have a hard time hearing _his_ name now. Sorrow clouded his brain. Was the victim of the duo, like his attacker, going to relive the incident every time his name was said? The boy'd certainly addressed him enough while it was happening.

_"Steven, please... Steven, stop... Steven, don't... Steven, please!"_

A myriad of whimpers, grunts, and pleas assaulted Steven's mind, followed closely by an overbearing wave of guilt. His eyes squeezed shut as he once again stopped pacing, instead trembling slightly in place. Each shaky inhale and exhale lead to more repulsion; more hatred; more disgust of himself. A heavy ball lay in the pit of his stomach. _'Arceus, what have I done?'_

He was sure he wouldn't be forgiven. He was sure that he didn't deserve forgiveness. He'd destroyed his bonds with a friend _and_ destroyed that friend's entire life in one fell swoop. And that bastard that had threatened him? He'd managed to put one of his targets in the hospital and sink the other shoulder-deep into despair with one phone call. Talk about killing two Tailow with one stone. Steven managed a humorless laugh. At least someone would go home satisfied tonight.

Now acutely aware of the piercing, worried gazes that rested on him—_'Don't pity me, you fools; I don't deserve it!'_—Steven whipped his head around, eyes snapping open to give a misty glare. "What are you all looking at?" he snapped. They flinched as one and immediately turned away, leaving him to shake in both anger and sorrow. With another frustrated roar, he spun around and continued to pace.

Suddenly, the doors hummed open and he froze.

Trainers scrambled away as a brunette stormed in, shoving aside anyone too slow to move out of her way. Steven himself just managed to whirl around, the closest emotion to terror he'd ever displayed flashing across his face, before she was upon him. She was clad in rumpled pink pajamas that pictured chibi renditions of smiling Skitty, but the ferocity of the teeth-baring scowl on her face was enough to make her more intimidating than a Mightyena. Heart pounding in his chest, Steven threw up his hands in a placating gesture, but his plan backfired when she seized him by the wrist and dragged him out the door.

Steven hastened to regain his footing so that he could stumble after her, but he didn't dare try to break her hold. "May—" he tried tenderly, but she was already tugging him aside by the arm and slamming him up against the wall, just barely gently enough to avoid hurting him. Glancing around told him that they'd entered an empty shop and now stood alone in a dark and desolate room. He tried a reflexive step back, but his back was against the wall, and a simple look at May's face confirmed that he wasn't going anywhere. He swallowed thickly. Hell had no fury like May when her friends were in danger, nor did it have any punishment quite as painful as her fists.

Honestly, though, Steven wasn't sure what he feared more: being attacked by May or _not_ being attacked by May. Arceus knew he deserved whatever she could think of to throw at him.

But May didn't swing her fist into his face as he'd half-expected and half-wanted her to. Instead, she took a firm hold on his red scarf and pulled him down so that they were eye-to-eye, cursing her height all the way. Steven's steel blue eyes met May's familiar cerulean glare—_teary cerulean eyes disappearing behind a black cloth as their owner pleaded for the agony to end_—and he felt about two feet tall.

"Care to _explain_," May snarled, "why my boyfriend is _unconscious_ in the hospital and he keeps _begging_ you to stop in his sleep?"

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><p><em>...what?<em>

_I did warn you about the angst._

_So, yeah. This is a fic where Steven has apparently hospitalized Brendan, May apparently blames him, Steven apparently blames himself, and there was apparently some random guy who apparently threatened Steven and was apparently targeting both Steven and Brendan._

_...I am absolutely not sorry._

_I am sorry for sticking Brendan in the hospital in the first chapter, though. You're adorable, Brendan! Please don't hate me!_


	2. Chapter One: Zugzwang

_For any non-nerds in the room, Zugzwang refers to a position in chess in which a player cannot make a "correct" move; or, in other words, any move they make will put them in a worse position than before. Doesn't that Criminal Minds episode just make so much more sense now?_

_Also, I inserted a sort of weird headcanon here where the two player characters sort of split the awesome deeds. So May's the Champion who got Latias and saved the world from Team Magma, but Brendan's the Pokèmon Professor who saved the world from Team Aqua and (SPOILERS FOR ORAS) caught Rayquaza to save the world from a huge freakin' meteor._

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><p><strong>Chapter One: Zugzwang<strong>

A shrill ring disturbed the otherwise silent night.

Groaning quietly, Steven shifted but did not rise, not yet fully awake. A band of light came through the blinds and fell across his exhausted face like a Skuntank stripe, casting a shadow over his wrinkled brow. He lay sprawled haphazardly across the surface of his kitchen table, slumped over from his chair. If you looked closely past his limply laying hands and the strands of silver-blue hair that fanned from his head and fell over his eyes, you could just see the papers over which he'd fallen.

A second ring roused him and he bolted upright with a startled cry, eyes snapping open and head turning rapidly from side to side. The chair he was on screeched an inch backward and almost toppled, only further disorienting him.

Before he could comprehend what had awakened him, through his dazed mind, he barely registered the third ring. Blinking the fuzz from his eyes, he reached up to run his fingers through his hair, risking a glance at the clock just as it struck midnight. Exhaling harshly, he stood on wobbly legs, stumbled towards the counter where his buzzing PokéNav sat, and answered it mid-ring, recognizing the number even though he could barely recognize his own name at this hour. "It's the middle of the _night,_ Brendan," he moaned as he pulled it close with wavering hands. "This'd better be _good."_

There was no reply.

Wondering dully if he'd read the number wrong, Steven brought up a hand to lay across his face. Naturally. As if this night couldn't get any more irritating. "Hello?" he muttered wearily, resolving to hang up if his caller continued to refuse to speak.

For a moment more, the only answer was the slight crackle of static. Then, without warning, terrified sobs began to ring through the reciever, tearing through his eardrums. What must have been a little girl, sounding no older than five, cried out between sniffles, "Please, mister... please help..."

In an instant, Steven's mind went on red alert and the fog that had once muffled his thoughts cleared instantaneously. "What's the matter?" he demanded, straightening as he no longer needed to lean against the counter. "Who is this?"

Some far-off part of his mind had hoped illogically that Brendan would be on next, laughing and teasing; saying, 'Gotcha!' But he knew deep down that not even Brendan, who was often oblivious as to just what was too far, had humor that was _this_ insensitive. Besides, Brendan knew of his own unpleasant experiences with ransom calls (he _was_ the heir to a multi-billion Pokédollar company, after all); he wouldn't dare joke about that. Sure enough, the voice that came next was definitely not Brendan's: it was far too deep and casual. "Good evening, Mr. Steven Stone," it drawled, just barely quiet enough that Steven could hear faint sobs in the background. "I'm sorry to wake you so late, but it was better this way. No witnesses, you understand?"

Steven's eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared, but there were no other signs of anger on his face. "Do I know you?" he asked coldly, showing no fear through his voice even though a cold edge of terror had just stabbed its fingers through his chest. _'Pretend to be uninterested;' _he coached himself mentally,_ 'if they mean to get a rise out of you, they might let the child go if they think you don't care.'_

The man chuckled mirthlessly in response, and Steven grit his teeth at the callous tone to his voice. "No, I don't believe you do," he replied easily, although he failed to introduce himself. "I know you, though, Mister Stone." _'Obviously,'_ Steven thought dryly, but he refrained from voicing his opinion out loud. That little girl had sounded scared enough that he believed her to be a hostage—and there was no way he was going to let her get hurt just because he couldn't control his temper. "And, although you don't know me, I'm sure you know—ah, Birch, was it? Brendan Birch?"

The man's singsong voice sent a chill throughout his veins, freezing his blood solid. He hadn't misread the number, then—this _was_ Brendan's PokéNav. A growl tore its way through his throat against his will, and he prayed to Arceus that the man hadn't caught it. "Indeed I do," he hissed through his teeth, fists clenching and threatening to crack his PokéNav under their might. "Where is he?"

The voice continued to laugh, as if his irritation was nothing if not amusing. "Oh, don't worry, Mister Stone. Brendan is safe and sound in his new apartment in Mauville—for now, at least." Steven's teeth clenched painfully at the obvious threat. "His dear mother and father must have been sad to see him go, but I suppose the Pokémon Champion should be able to take care of himself, shouldn't he?"

Steven blinked. Oh, yeah. Most people believed that Brendan was the Champion, didn't they? When word got out that the new Champion was the child of a famous trainer and lived in Littleroot, the media checked its archives—which were older and didn't show that May had moved in from Johto—and incorrectly assumed that Brendan was the Champion. May was happy to let the misconception stand, not being one for popularity, and, since Brendan _had_ saved the word from Team Aqua while she saved it from Team Magma, the general public ate it up. Besides, Brendan would very likely be capable of beating Steven if he tried—he just never tried.

The voice went on slowly; nonchalantly; without a care in the world. "These adorable little kiddies, though? Their parents will be frantic when they wake up this morning, now won't they." It wasn't a question; not really. "Say hello to Mister Stone, kiddies."

A chorus of voices cried out various forms of "Help, mister!" and Steven felt his stomach flip.

"What do you want?" he snapped as soon as the man was back on, no longer concerned with keeping up appearances. This _asshole_ was threatening the lives of who knew how many innocent children _and_ one of his two closest companions. There was a time for façades, and there was a time for action.

The man only sighed and tutted disapprovingly, mocking his victim as if knowing that Steven was now officially stuck between a rock and a hard place. "Tsk tsk, Mister Stone. Watch your temper. We wouldn't want any of these kiddies to get hurt, now would we?" A faint slapping sound followed by a yelp echoed in Steven's brain ominously, as if taunting him with every rebound. Rage boiled within his chest, but he quickly suppressed it, wanting nothing more than a scathing wit to respond with. "But, to answer your question, I really just want the money I'm getting from my client for this," the man answered simply. "What my _client_ wants, however; _that's_ a whole other story. From what I can tell, he wants you and your friend to suffer. And I have just the plan." His voice was upbeat; cheery, even; as if the words that it delivered weren't disgusting.

Tightly-held fists shook silently at Steven's sides. "So what does that mean for me?" the pissed silverette managed to grind out with minimal anger. His mind raced, his fingers already inching towards his Pokéballs, ready to send a message of warning to Brendan at short notice. He might give himself up for the safety of those children, but he'd be damned if he let his friends get hurt, too.

Another sigh reached him and, for a horrifying moment, he thought he'd sounded too angry once again. But the man just replied, "Impatient as always, I see," and there were no apparent repercussions, much to his relief. "First of all, let me make this clear. You are not to try to warn Brendan throughout any of this. In fact, I forbid you to speak to him unless it's something I tell you to say."

Steven's eyebrows angled steeply down as he glared at nothing. This guy was awfully sure of himself. He just straight-up demanded complete control of his words. "And what if I do?" he challenged, not wanting any of the children to get hurt but needing to know where he stood and what would be the consequences for disobedience.

"Then all these kiddies die, no questions asked."

Steven froze in place.

There was no way for the man to know how he'd reacted without quite a bit of guesswork, but he continued talking as if he'd been right there watching. "I trust these terms are agreeable?" he trilled; then, without waiting for a response: "Good. Let's move on, then. The second rule: you _will_ do what I tell you to. The same punishments apply. Understood?"

A tiny crack appeared under Steven's white knuckles as his hands began to shake. How _dare_ he? How dare _anyone_ put a gun to the heads of a crowd of kids and then glue his hand to the trigger? What was he supposed to do now? He could refuse and kill a group of toddlers, or he could accept and just trust that he wouldn't be forced to kill Brendan. Neither option was very appealing.

_"Understood?"_

His fist tightened even further. "Understood," he spat.

If the man was shaken by the fury in his voice, he didn't show it. "Wonderful. Then let's proceed." He stood and exited the room evidently, eliciting a heaving sigh of relief from Steven. The kids would be safe for a while longer. A faint _click_ assured him that a door had closed. "On your porch, you'll find a box containing a blindfold, an earpiece, and some rope. Put the earpiece in and then hang up."

Steven moved on autopilot, trudging out to his front porch, where, as promised, there sat a lone cardboard box. Steeling himself with a deep breath, he inserted the white bud into his ear and then dutifully ended the call.

"Lovely," the man's voice buzzed into his ear. He really should've been surprised, but he just couldn't seem to muster up the energy. "That's perfect, Mister Stone. Now put all your Pokémon away except for Skarmory."

Of course the man knew what Pokémon he had; his team roster was practically common knowledge among Trainers who aspired to challenge him. He obediently unclipped five Pokéballs from his belt and set them in a row on the table. _'If I go missing, at least, May'll come looking and find them,'_ he consoled himself to little effect. This situation was far too impossible for such a small detail to matter much; his Pokémon would remain fine indefinitely if kept in their Pokéballs, so it didn't really matter either way.

"Now let your Skarmory out and put its Pokéball aside," the man commanded, and Steven did so without a word. A bead of perspiration gathered in his hair, sticking at the end of a silver lock, and he took several deep, calming breaths. Every time he so much as moved a muscle, the looming threat of the children's deaths flashed before his eyes. He knew that one wrong move would dump a bucket of blood right onto his hands. He knew that those same shaking hands that now rubbed absently over Skarmory's cold steel beak held the lives of maybe twenty children. It was nerve-wracking, to say the least.

"Now, then, Mister Stone," the voice started up again, breaking him rather rudely from his reverie, "I don't believe I've explained your duty to you yet." Steven glanced down at the black strip of cloth and rope in his hands and wondered blankly if he was expected to tie himself up. He needn't have worried, though. "Put the rope and blindfold into your bag. Those are for Brendan."

All of the acceptance, all of the dull resignation—it was all suddenly stripped away. "No!" he cried before he could stop himself, the cap he'd sealed over his emotions suddenly bursting away in a supernova of fear and denial. "No! You will not hurt him!"

As soon as the words had left his mouth, he regretted them. _'You idiot!'_ he snarled at himself, reaching up to pull at his hair. _Think of all the children stuck with that sicko right now! You've just put all of them in danger!'_ But there would be no taking back the words now; they were already out there for his captor (no matter how much he was moving with his own free will, that man was still his captor) to do with as he pleased.

But the man didn't seem perturbed; if anything, it apparently amused him greatly. "Oh my, you're rather oblivious, aren't you, Mister Stone?" he laughed, leaving Steven to simmer in silence at the patronizing words and obvious insult. Really, he could've at least _tried_ to keep up the polite atmosphere. "No, no; _I_ will not lay a hand on the boy. _You_ will hurt him."

It took a second for Steven to fully digest that information. The rope, the blindfold, the earpiece that he could hear but no one else, the Skarmory that could fly him to Mauville easily.

_"What."_

The man shrieked with laughter, obviously finding Steven's horror no less than hysterical. "Oh, so this _is_ news to you!" he mocked, but Steven could feel no anger; only growing dread. "Yes, Mister Stone, you are going to tie your friend up and hurt him or the cute little kiddies in the room behind me get their cute little throats slit on the spot."

Steven's heart pounded in his ears. _Tha-thump._ "No." _Tha-thump._ "I—" _Tha-thump._ "I can't." _Tha-thump._

The man, at least, appeared to be having a good time. He laughed and laughed as if his predicament was the funniest thing in the world. "Sorry, Mister Stone," he chuckled unrepentantly, "but you have to. It's either that or all these kiddies—"

"Yes, yes, I know!" Steven interrupted, finally revived from his zombie-like state. He'd certainly voiced the threat enough already. "I know..." he muttered under his breath, fear practically palpable in the air around him. How was he supposed to make a decision in this situation? He could either kill a bunch of people or hurt his best friend. Pain for one or death for many. The choice was obvious. But there was no choice. He'd never anticipated an ultimatum like this. Who would be able to?

"Well?" the man sung. "What's it gonna be, Mister Stone? The lives of the kiddies or the welfare of your friend?"

It was so obvious. Really, there was no dilemma. He could either kill twenty people or spare them for the price of one man's pain. It wasn't like his friend would _die,_ unlike the kids. Besides, he knew deep in his heart that, had he been there, Brendan would've seen no problem with being tied up and beaten six ways to Sunday if it meant saving the lives of anyone, much less twenty-something kids. In fact, he would've practically demanded that he be the one in pain. It was easy to imagine him holding out his hands to be tied and telling the Champ with a fierce resolve, "Go on. I can take it." That was just how he was.

Steven closed his eyes, pulled in a deep breath, and dropped the rope into his bag.

"What now?"

* * *

><p><em>...yeah.<em>

_Hey, I already warned you about the angst in the prologue; you can't complain now!_

_Seriously, though, I really like how this turned out. Even if it is just a huge lump of glorified angst. ...which it is._

_DISCLAIMER: I don't own Pokèmon, nor, sadly, do I own Steven Stone! I don't think I need to disclaim anyone else, 'cause this chapter is pretty much solid Steven smexiness with a side of angst served cold._

_Brendan gets beat up in the next chapter. Jeez, this story makes it seem like I freakin' hate Brendan..._


	3. Chapter Two: One O'Clock

_Slight warning: this chapter includes violence, what could be considered torture, and lots and lots of angst. If that sort of thing could be a trigger for you, I suggest that you either stop reading or just stop when the violence starts and skip to the next chapter. This will be the only chapter containing this level of detail, although there will be brief and fuzzy flashbacks in later chapters._

_Well, this chapter ended up a lot longer than I'd anticipated. I'm writing this A/N prior to the final edit, so it might end up shorter or longer, but, as of right now, the chapter (sans author's notes) is 3,275 words long. Which isn't really that long, but, considering how quickly I wrote it, is still sorta surprising. Actually, this chapter got re-written at least five times, and each one was about this length, so I've written maybe 16,000 words in the past week-ish. I'm pretty proud of myself. Usually, it goes a LOT slower..._

_Many many many MANY thanks to** Darling Grimm** (Here's your angst; no refunds.), **HybridDragoness** (Thanks!; there might be three or four more chapters, in case you were wondering.), **Alley Cat Sunflower** (W-wow, thanks! Proper grammar is generally rare online, isn't it?), and **TheSpookster** (Here it is, Oneechan! ...Almost a week after I promised! ...Sorry...) for reviewing! Every time I get a review, I find it in my inbox and think to myself, "Wow! I really need to write the next chapter for that!" ...Seriously. That's literally what happens._

_Anyways, I'm pretty sure this goes without saying, but I don't own Pokémon, nor do I own Steven Stone, nor do I own Brendan, nor do I own... *thinks for a moment* ...actually, that pretty much covers it. In fact, just "Pokémon" probably would've sufficed, but where's the fun in that?_

_Without further ado, let's do this._

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><p><strong>Chapter Two: One O'Clock<strong>

The doorbell was a death knell in Steven's ears.

He stood quietly in front of Brendan's apartment, his confused Skarmory perched precariously on the railing of the stairs behind him. For a moment, Steven wondered if he should be ringing the doorbell at this hour; it would wake up the neighbors. Then he remembered, with no shortage of distress, that Mauville prided itself in having very thick walls. Not _soundproof,_ of course; soundproof walls were expensive as crap. But close. That would explain why the man on the phone didn't seem to worry about the fact that Brendan had two next-door neighbors and another directly behind his apartment.

As he waited patiently for an answer, Steven glanced around curiously, having never been in Mauville Homes before. The clean, almost sterile environment was a sharp contrast to his neat but homey abode, and he found himself fidgeting nervously under the harsh fluorescent light. This was new. He'd always wondered why anxiety caused people to flutter about like this; now he knew, although it was hardly a good emotion to feel first-hand. He felt as if he was under an intense, scrutinizing gaze, only he was naked instead of being clad in his usual dark suit and red scarf. Faintly, he wondered how anyone could stand living here.

An enlightening experience, to be sure.

A burst of static like a clap of thunder roared in his right ear for only a moment, then cleared to distinguish the voice of his tormentor. "Get ready to act, Mister Stone," the man practically purred, and Steven allowed his teeth to clench and his eyebrows to meet in a silent snarl. The second he found out who this man was and where he lived (because he _would_ find out, one way or another), he resolved to tell May exactly what had happened and sic her on him. And, although she was sweet and kind as could be most of the time, let it never be said that May had no temper. When it came to threats to her friends' and her Pokémon's safety, May would become a font of unstoppable rage. Not even the ever-cool-headed Steven or the brave-and-somewhat-reckless Brendan would dare to mess with her when she got pissed.

"Ring it again."

Steven felt annoyance ebb into his mind as he pressed the doorbell once again, listening closely after its cry. It _was_ past midnight, as he finally acknowledged. Perhaps—did he dare to hope?—Brendan wouldn't answer and this whole damn thing would get called off. Keeping that thought in mind, he hoped and prayed to Arceus that the door would never open. No dice, though; he should've known that Brendan wasn't the kind of person to leave someone outside just because it was late.

Soft footsteps padded audibly from inside the quaint apartment and Steven groaned quietly. A faint _click_ preluded an equally faint _skrreee_ as the door drifted open. Emerging from behind it was Brendan, looking rather the worse for wear. His bright blue eyes were half-lidded and fluttering, and his usually well-maintained brown hair was unkempt and rumpled, especially without his trademark white hat to keep it in check.

Fisting his right eye and blinking the left blearily, he mumbled something indecipherable underneath his breath. His wavering line of sight was focused on his visitor's shoes so that he wouldn't have to look up; the blinding white lights of Mauville crippled him at this hour. "Middle of the night," he moaned, only for his eyes to catch a glimpse of a familiar suit with purple zig-zags on it in his peripherals. Slowly, he looked up, past the easily recognizable scarf and Mega Pin, until his wandering eyes finally came to a rest on Steven's face, which was impressively composed given the situation. Taking in his friend's windswept hair and somewhat bedraggled demeanor, he quickly shook the sleep from his head like a Furfrou, running his fingers through his hair to keep it under control. "Oh—heya, Steven," he greeted, his voice more awake as he glanced at the clock. _00:38._ "What're you doin' here?"

Steven took in a deeper breath than he probably should've for the sake of his acting. _'Just say what he told you to say and stick to the script,'_ he coached himself firmly. _'This'll all be over sooner if you just_ stick _to the_ script.' Gathering the words that he'd recited over and over on the fly there, he opened his mouth to respond.

Something tripped.

His brain fumbled and grasped helplessly at words, but they fell away under its searching probe, abandoning ship at the first sign of catastrophe. The instant he'd looked at the boy—_really_ looked at the boy—it was as if he'd seen him for the first time. Steven was too perceptive to miss the faith and comfort on his face. There was a very strong, very mutual trust between the two; it was clear to see. Those thoughts threw him roughly into his memories, where May, Brendan, and he would spend hours just spelunking in a lighthearted romp through the wilderness, catching Pokémon and bickering lightly amongst themselves. He couldn't hurt _Brendan;_ not happy, innocent _Brendan_. There was no irritation glimmering in those eyes; only friendliness. _Damn_ those eyes. They made it so _difficult._

Seeing the fleeting look of desperation that struggled across the older boy's face, Brendan's brow wrinkled in concern. "Is everything okay?" he worried, stepping out of the door and surveying the silverette more closely. Upon closer inspection, he _did_ look more sweaty than usual. Leaning forward and standing on his tip-toes, he reached up and placed the back of his hand across Steven's forehead. "Feels like a fever," he fretted.

Steven hastily brushed the hand off of his face. He had to get this over with as quickly as possible before he got blindsided my nostalgia again. "Can I come in?" he requested tenderly, inwardly cussing himself out for letting the younger Trainer figure out that something was amiss.

He'd hoped to see reluctance; disapproval. He was even prepared to fall to his knees and beg the almighty Arceus to _please, please, let him say no._ And he'd almost believed for a second that his wish would become a reality; that he would be told sternly that he _couldn't_ come in. But that had been foolish, wishful thinking. "Of course," was Brendan's reply as he stepped aside, holding the door open. A Birch's home was practically everyone's home, after all; Professor Birch's house in particular almost always had some guest with some problem who needed a place to stay.

Sighing quietly in resignation, Steven muttered a quiet order to his Skarmory, who took wing and glided out of sight, and strode purposely through the doorway. He'd have to give an impressive performance if he wanted those kids to return to their parents. No one could guess that he'd been forced into action; that he didn't want to do this. Not even Brendan himself could know, as much as he would've liked to warn the boy. He seemed to be doing a rather sub-par acting job so far.

Once he had made it all the way inside, he turned around, wishing that Brendan's back wasn't to him so that he wouldn't have the opportunity to sneak up on the boy. But, of course, he _did _have the opportunity, so he would have to take it. Sucking in a deep breath and turning it to steel inside him, he manually arranged his face into an angry snarl. He needed to do this. For those kids. He _needed_ to. Unaware of the turmoil his friend was going through, Brendan casually closed the door behind them, replacing the safety chain.

Even though he could see his hand, and even though he was supposedly in control of it, Steven couldn't feel himself move as he reached forward.

Only an instant after Brendan removed his hand from the doorknob, he felt clammy fingers clasp the back of his shirt collar and tug him harshly. A startled yelp tore itself free of his throat as he stumbled backwards. That cry roughly transitioned into a muffled grunt as the hand hurled him aside and he collided with a wall, his back arching reflexively as his head pounded and his vision swam. His legs fell out from under him, suddenly and inexplicably useless, and the brunette collapsed to the ground in a heap. There he lay face-down, trying to compose himself; his brain struggling unsuccessfully to comprehend what had just happened and who had thrown him like a rag doll. The reality of the situation sunk in slowly, thought by thought, as Steven fixed his expression, which had involuntarily switched from furious to pained. _'I let Steven in... and then he was behind me...'_ No. _'He's definitely strong enough_...' No. _'His hands were sweaty, just like his face.' _Oh, Arceus,_ no._

Steven... had _attacked_ him. Steven Stone, the Pokémon Champion, the famously stoic heir and his good friend, had actually just _thrown_ him into the wall. _'What... why...?'_

Once he'd managed to collect himself, he propped himself up on shaking arms, sensing the presence of the older man behind him as the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. "Steven?!" he began, his voice incredulous. "What was _that_ fo—?!"

Before he could finish his demand for answers, a polished black dress shoe slammed into the small of his back, knocking his unsteady limbs out from under him all too easily. He, once again, was forced face-down onto the floor, his limbs sprawled uselessly about. His head spun and roared in pain at the sudden motion and a small cry escaped his lips.

The realization hit him like a speeding Donphan. This was happening. This was really happening. Steven was really... h-_hurting_ him. He didn't know what to think or do. This was a trusted friend, so he obviously couldn't fight back; did he try to placate the apparently angry Champion? Honestly, he wasn't sure that would work, but he really didn't have a choice.

"S-Steven?" he tried unsurely, and said Champion felt himself flinch. The uncertainty in his friend's voice was almost as disarming as the sheer faith he'd seen in his eyes earlier. He found himself wondering if Brendan would ever trust him again after this. Probably not. Then again, he fully planned to turn himself in as soon as he found and annihilated the man on the other side of the earbud, so it wouldn't really end up mattering either way.

Pushing aside his hesitation, Steven once again brought back his foot and kicked his friend as he attempted to stand, this time in the side. A grunt escaped the boy as he tumbled over and almost hit the wall again, hands flying to the bruise that was certainly forming under his juvenile Snorlax-print pajamas.

A hiss of static in Steven's ear sent dread running up and down his spine. "Now take his shirt off and tie him up. I wanna see some anger. Convince me!"

He flinched almost violently, but, again, he knew he had to obey promptly despite his own reluctance. For the kids. That didn't make it much easier, though. Not when his friend was starting to panic under his blows, his breathing speeding up ever-so-subtly. Steven didn't miss the way he didn't attempt to stand this time, instead just shielding his head with his arms. "Steven, stop!" he coughed out.

Brendan winced when he was dragged back by his shirt and flipped onto his back. Upon opening his eyes, which had instinctively squeezed shut, he saw the older (and taller and stronger) man loom over him, his face displaying nothing but rage. Before he could try to reason with him, though, hands were flashing to the front of his pajama shirt, ripping through the buttons all at once and prying several of them clean off. They skittered across the floor as the silverette began to tear off the shirt's tattered remains.

Seeing the danger he was in (but not from Steven; surely not from Steven), Brendan began to fight to no avail. His attacker (...Steven?) was quite a bit stronger than he, and his Pokémon were visiting with May's team at his father's lab, save his Flygon, whose Pokèball was resting carelessly on his bedside table. Both locations might as well have been a million miles away. His struggling arms were forced out through his sleeves and he shivered in the suddenly cold apartment. "S-Steven!" he addressed his friend urgently, his eyes large and pleading as they locked on to that familiar set of steel blue, searching for some kind of repentance; some sign that his old friend was still in there. "Steven, stop! You'll regret this later!"

Steven ignored the pleas to the best of his abilities, focusing on what he must and mustn't do. Forcing Brendan onto his stomach as "angrily" as he could without actually hurting him, he pinned the boy's flailing wrists above him, binding them carefully to the leg of his coffee table with the rope he had been given. His ankles were also bound on the insistence of the voice crackling in his ear. Brendan thrashed under him, tears collecting at the edges of his eyes as he was tied up like he was a criminal or something by what could only be described as a trusted companion. He didn't know what he'd done to deserve this kind of treatment from the man. Weren't they _friends?_ He'd always seemed so _nice;_ so _polite._ But he'd done something; he'd done _something_ to make Steven so angry at him. The question was: _what?_

A foot mercilessly assaulted his stomach, tearing several strangled cries from his throat as he was forced onto his side. _"St-Steven!"_ he wheezed desperately. "I don't know—_nnrg!_—wh-what I—_did!_—but I'm _sorry—**unngh!"**_

Steven squeezed his eyes shut, wishing that doing so would make the stifled cries of pain go away. _'Those children are in danger,'_ he told himself, willing the tears from his eyes. _'You have no choice. He's gonna be okay. He's strong.'_

A buzz in his ear whispered "Now for the fun part," and he resisted the intense urge to whimper like a Poochyena with its leg in an Ursaring trap. One thing was for sure: he did /not/ feel like knowing what this man thought of as 'fun.' It appeared that he had no choice, though, because the message did not end. "Have you ever heard of hitting someone with a belt, _Mister Stone?"_

Steven did not reply.

"I'll take that as a yes," the man trilled, as if he was having all the fun in the world. "Ah, but I do have good news, Mister Stone, and it's actually good for you this time." Steven's back straightened, his curiosity piqued. "There are twenty-two adorable kiddies with me, and I was originally going to have you hit Brendan once for each child. But, since you've been so _cooperative,_ I'll settle for fifteen. Unless you _want_ to keep going, of course."

He should have been repulsed. He should have been horrified. He should have been disgusted. In some sense, he was all of those things. But, really, all he could manage to muster up was an overwhelming sense of guilt. The words "unless you _want_ to keep going" echoed and reverberated over and over again in his brain. Of course he didn't want to hurt Brendan! _'Then why kick so hard?'_ No; he was being forced into it! _'You've failed him.'_ That wasn't the way it was! _**'Failed.'**_N-no.. _'You're doing this. You're hurting him.'_

_'You're no better than the bastard on the phone.'_

Brendan's tear-filled eyes fluttered open and Steven's heart sagged dejectedly in his chest at the fear and pain that resided there. _'Remember happier times,'_ Steven coached himself.

Cerulean eyes sparkling in delight as the three friend rode on the back of May's Latias, Lissa. Cerulean eyes glimmering in amusement as Steven blushed over some joke May had made at his expense. Cerulean eyes burning in determination as Archie threw out his first Pokémon and the battle began.

Cerulean eyes shining in terror as he pulled his belt from its loops and brandished like a whip.

Realization dawned across Brendan's face seconds after the belt was drawn, and he scrambled away to the best of his ability, sure to keep the weapon in his sight. "N-no!" he cried. "No, don't! What did—w-what did..." He began to sob as Steven drew closer, bringing the strip of leather and the promise of pain with him. "What did I ever do to you?" His fingers scratched uselessly at the leg of the table as he wrenched at his wrists to no effect.

Trying his damnedest to keep his face looking sadistic—a feat he barely accomplished by imagining that the one at his mercy was the man on the phone—Steven knelt down by his side, not risking a glance towards his expression, and flipped him over onto his stomach. "Steven, please!" Brendan begged, only to grunt in pain as his bruised chest hit the floor. "Nng—no, stop, please—_**aaah!"**_

A scream of agony ripped the air around them as the belt came down onto his bare back with a _crack_ and he knew _pain pain pain._ He immediately began to struggle for all he was worth, tears squeezing from the corners of his eyes as his eyelids screwed themselves shut. With each twist, his back was only further inflamed, but he found himself unable to quell the movements. His body was acting on pure adrenalin and instinct, trying to pull away from the fire that burned and scorched his skin; that one line across his back where, by Arceus, it _hurt._

As soon as he was able, he twisted his head around as far as he could manage and wrenched his eyes open with some difficulty, connecting his gaze with Steven's and locking them both there. "Please," he sobbed, "just stop!" Seeing hesitation, if only momentarily, in his friend's eyes, Brendan continued with his pleas, unaware that he was putting the lives of children in jeopardy. "Please, Steven; I won't tell anyone, just please—"

_Snap._ The makeshift whip came down again, painting yet another red stripe across his back. _**"Aaaaah!"**_ Brendan writhed in his restraints, the carefully tied rope around his wrists still chafing and burning his skin. He could've sworn he heard a choked sob come from above him, but he brushed it off as wishful thinking. No; Steven hated him now, apparently. There was no alternate explanation. Steven had always been nothing if not polite and well-mannered to practically everyone; even his hated enemies. For him to be this violent and cruel... _'He must really_ despise _me,'_ Brendan concluded miserably.

Standing above him with his bloodied belt clutched in a quivering hand was Steven, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. He hadn't cried since he was a tiny child; his father had taught him much better than that. Yet here he was, shamelessly allowing those forbidden drops to fall.

Sniffing lightly, Steven glowered at nothing as a voice clicked into existence in his ear. "You've forgotten the blindfold, Mister Stone," it pointed out matter-of-factly, almost sounding bored.

Steven, momentarily forgetting his place, turned away from the crying boy on the floor with an even harsher watery glare and hissed, "He's terrified enough as it is!"

"Then it sucks being him, doesn't it?"

Growling under his breath, Steven practically ripped the blindfold from his bag and turned back to Brendan. His face fell back into sorrow almost instantly, anger dissolving into nothing. His friend (_'The nerve of you to call yourself his friend.'_) was squirming helplessly, the fetters on his hands and feet leaving painful-looking abrasions. There were two long welts on his back, each a bright, angry red. His eyes, although shut, were brimming with tears, and he was sobbing brokenly under his breath.

_'You did this. You did this. Your fault your fault your fault.'_

_'You're no better than the bastard over the phone.'_

Clenching his fists so tightly that his fingernails broke the skin, he mustered up that anger, throwing it onto his face. Now efficiently livid-looking, he knelt by Brendan's head, wincing unnoticeably when the boy shrunk back, his eyes immediately snapping open, fearing the worst situations his imagination could come up with. As Steven reached forward to wrap the cloth around his face, he winced, continuing to fight his bonds. "N-no!" he gasped. "D-don't!" Looking up to meet the silverette's eyes, he felt tears finally overflow, streaming down his face. "Please don't," he whispered pitifully.

Steven forced himself to glare, and something inside him curled up and died when it elicited a terrified flinch. "Please," the shaking boy mewled, trying unsuccessfully to pull away as Steven knotted the blindfold into his hair, obscuring his eyes. "Please no. I'm sorry. D-don't hurt me." His voice was raspy from overuse, not accustomed to such screaming, but he did not stop. Some deep part of his brain still irrationally hoped that the pain would stop if he begged enough.

Steven stood back up and the belt came back down.

Screams echoed throughout the apartment.

The clock struck one.

* * *

><p><em>Brendan! You're finally here! Come join the party; we're having lots of fun! Oh, wait... I pretty much just had you beat up in this chapter and nothing else, didn't I? Um... whoops? I really do love you, promise!<em>

_So, yeah. We finally get to see what phone-guy/hitman-guy/yeah-he's-pretty-generic-isn't-he__-guy is up to. No, you did not read incorrectly: Steven did indeed just beat Brendan up. To be entirely fair, though, he was forced, and, if he knew the situation, Brendan would definitely not have minded._

_No, I don't actually think Steven is as bad as he thinks he is for doing this. I do feel bad for Brendan, though. Poor guy's gonna need SO much therapy after this. So will Steven, actually._

_Next time! Brendan goes to the hospital, May is informed, and Steven makes a break for it! Probably! I don't have the whole thing planned, to be honest, but let's just pretend that I do!_


	4. Chapter Three: The Price of Mercy

_I can't stop with the angst... Jeez... Also, this chapter ran way longer than expected, too, and I had to cut the ending short. Maybe I should just keep going anyways...? I dunno. I just don't want to leave anything out, that's all._

_Many thanks go out to everyone who's followed or favorited this story so far; you guys really do help me to get out the chapters faster. As should be obvious from how quickly this chapter went up, ehe.  
><em>

_DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, which makes me feel like a communist, but that's beyond the point. I do own Brendan's Flygon, who shows up in this chapter, and the idea for this fic, so no stealing, m'kay? And by "stealing," I literally mean that, unless your story has literally the exact same plot, we're good. 'Kay? 'Kay._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three: The Price of Mercy<strong>

A trembling brunette, his limbs bound and bleeding, let out a quiet moan as his body was racked with sobs. Each time he moved, another bout of burning agony flashed through his back. The fifteen welts that crisscrossed over his once smooth skin were oozing so much thick crimson liquid that most would assume them to be lacerations.

A single footstep tapped against the floor and he flinched, only to hiss in pain when doing so further aggravated his wounds. An older man with steel-blue hair and an imposing black suit stood over the boy, casting an ominous shadow over his quivering form. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were misty and pink. Only when the earpiece he wore flickered to life did he allow his nonchalant facade to slip, exposing a glare which held such animosity and malice that the temperature in the room plummeted noticeably.

As soon as the earpiece clicked back off, he sighed, suddenly appearing at least ten years older, before rearranging his face to appear uncaring once more.

"Have you learned your lesson?"

Steven had enough time to send a desperate prayer to Arceus, begging that no one else had heard the crack in his voice, before he got any response. The forsaken boy that lay at his feet (he could no longer bear to call him "Brendan;" it made them seem too familiar and friendly) simply drew in a shaky breath, unsure how he was to respond. _What_ lesson? He'd decided to avoid Steven as much as possible for as long as possible after this, but he highly doubted _that_ was what the older man meant.

_"Well?"_

Another flinch. Summoning his meager bits of remaining strength to his sandpaper-dry mouth, Brendan quickly stammered out "Y-yes!" As soon as the word left his mouth, he began to pray to Arceus, much as Steven had only seconds ago. _'Please, please, let this be it. Please; I-I can't...'_

Steven closed his eyes, unable to look at what he'd done for any longer. _'Don't look away. You did this. The least you can do is suffer through the aftermath.' _Ignoring the tiny whisper at the back of his mind, he turned aside and muttered under his breath, "There. I did it. I'm done. Let them go." This time, he made no effort to hide the tremor in his words; he was too exhausted to keep the act up for a second longer.

_Bzzt. _"Not so fast, Mister Stone," a bemused voice replied, acting like the ex-Champion had truly been impatient. "Knock him out first." Hastily interrupting the start of a protest, he added firmly, "And don't give me any crap about not wanting to hurt him anymore. You know as well as I do that you can grab the base of his neck without causing any pain."

Steven was far too numb to be annoyed; there was room in his heart for nothing but dull resignation now. Offering the prone form of his best friend a dubious glance, he sighed lugubriously, realizing begrudgingly that the man was right. Kneeling on unstable legs (since when had he been shaking?), he softly placed his fingertips on the fragile skin of Brendan's neck, earning another flinch, another whimper, and another addition to the laundry list of reasons to hate himself. Taking great care that he wouldn't cause any pain, he pinched right where he knew the pressure point was, cutting the whisper of "Steven, ple—" short. With a single shudder and one last moan, Brendan collapsed, his body instantly going slack.

Lurching forward, Steven just managed to catch him before he hit the ground, his arms moving so low and fast that they burned roughly against the carpet through his sleeve, which was stained with tiny streaks. His face twisted in concern as he carefully lay the Trainer down and stood once again, hoping beyond any form of hope that the man on the phone was satisfied by now.

Opening his mouth to demand to be released, he only managed to gag slightly as his eyes accidentally fell on Brendan and the blood-stained marks across his back. Quickly turning away, he found, was no good; he could still catch glances of the boy in his peripherals, making his stomach twist and flip like it was using Teeter Dance. Gritting his teeth, he turned and walked into the next room, cursing himself for his cowardliness all the way. "Okay," he murmured tersely once there, no longer needing to speak quietly but doing so anyway out of pure habit.

For a long while, there was no reply. "Hello?" he tried after a few moments had passed. Still, nothing moved except himself. He quickly began to grow anxious, tapping his fingers rapidly against the side of his leg. Without the stifled sobs from Brendan, all he could hear was a maddening _tick, tick, tick._

Just before he could snap and demand an answer, the man returned, seeming rather pleased with himself. "Very well, Mister Stone. The parents and children of Lilycove City are in your debt."

At first, Steven remained in an apathetic daze, his gaze somewhere off in the distance. The words did not register; he didn't understand. The earpiece remained silent, as if the man on the other end had anticipated this reaction. Once again, the only sound was the faint _tick, tick, tick _of the clock.

Then that all came crashing down when he absorbed those two simple sentences and everything fell away. The children were safe. They presumably were or would soon be back home in their beds, where they would wake their parents and tell them with teary eyes what had happened. He was free. The man had no more bait to use against him; no other way to control him. "It's—it's _over?"_ he breathed, barely daring to hope that he'd heard the man right.

The man's smile was practically audible and, for once, Steven doubted it was the smug smirk he'd imagined earlier.

"It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mister Stone."

The dial tone was the most beautiful sound Steven had ever heard.

This was it. He'd done it. They'd done it. It was over. The distress; the heartbreak; the cries of agony that made him wish he was dead. It was all over.

He'd made it. They'd made it. He and Brendan had—

Then, everything came rushing back in an instant, and Steven felt his sagging eyelids snap back open.

_'Brendan!'_

He took off in a sprint before he'd even fully snapped out of it, rocketing across the room faster than he'd ever moved before; so fast that the wind's whistle in his ears was practically the scream of a Skarmory. The carpet stained his trousers and burned his knees as he slid to a stop beside Brendan's limp form, making him acutely aware of the throbbing on his forearms, but he couldn't possibly care less. Peeling away the hardened shell of apathy, he let his emotions run free and, for the first time that night, assessed the damage he had dealt.

Brendan was still bound to the table leg, but he'd rolled over onto his side, his legs bent awkwardly behind him. Even in his exhausted void of a sleep, he was trembling with the effort of remaining silent. From the front, the damage didn't appear too terrible: although his chest was littered with bruises, they were more of a dull red than black or blue. But his back was covered in welts and smeared with blood. His wrists and ankles were slick enough that they could probably be slid out of their restraints, given how much he'd struggled. And, although the blindfold around his face covered his eyes, just a glance at the rest of his expression was enough to see that his face was contorted in agony.

_'The agony of betrayal.'_ Not for the first time that night, he ignored the voice that niggled at his conscience.

His eyes widening at the terrible state of his friend (did he even have the right to call him a friend anymore?), Steven frantically reached for his pocket, his fingers fumbling for the simple pocketknife he carried with him. _'Arceus, how could I let it get so bad?!'_ Finally grasping the knife within sweaty fingers, he yanked it free and flicked it open masterfully. Jerking himself forward, he stumbled over to the ropes that secured Brendan's hands and hastily sawed through them, nicking himself but paying no mind. Pulling the cut segments of rope away and tossing them aside, he moved on to the boy's feet, liberating those as well, before carefully picking the knot of the blindfold apart. He didn't trust a knife anywhere near Brendan's face. Especially not in his hands.

Deep in his mind, all he could seem to hear was _"Unless, of course, you _want _to keep going."_

Of course he didn't want to hurt Brendan.

But he wasn't taking any chances after tonight.

Reaching to pull Brendan's arms down from their stretched position, Steven recoiled the second his fingers touched the boy's arm, a concerned frown taking over his face. Replacing his hand, he felt his already massive amounts of worry rocket even higher up. The boy's skin was practically freezing cold! _'How did I not notice this before?'_ he wondered incredulously, becoming more and more distraught with every passing moment.

Suddenly aware of how imperitive it was to get the boy warmed up, Steven ran to find the thermostat, which he turned up quite a bit. Rifling around in his bag as he went, he pulled out a Super Potion and a roll of gauze; he'd managed to sneak them in before leaving Mossdeep. They would have to do. Although pretty weak as a healing spray for humans, Potions were very potent as numbing agents, and they would help with a little bit of the bleeding. Shaking the Potion bottle lightly, he sprayed it over the welts that covered Brendan's back, hoping for both Trainers' sakes that this stuff worked fast, because they had to fly to a hospital whether Brendan could feel the pain still or not.

There weren't enough bandages—not really—but they would do well enough. He slowed down a bit when dressing Brendan's wounds, assuring that he covered everything that needed to be covered, and pretended not to feel his heart sink when the linen became instantly crimson and heavy.

_'A shirt. He needs a shirt.' _Steven glanced uncertainly at the door that he knew led to Brendan's bedroom, but it was a chilly night, and all of Brendan's shirts would likely be even colder than he was. The choice was so obvious that he didn't even think about it. He simply shrugged off his jacket, sat Brendan up, and tenderly manipulated his arms into the sleeves. Wrapping the black-and-purple garment around the unconscious boy, he lifted Brendan into his arms and cradled him carefully. As if sensing the sudden change in position, the boy almost awoke, instead remaining in some half-asleep state. Shivering violently, he unconsciously gravitated towards the new heat source, a mewl escaping his mouth as he grabbed a fistful of Steven's shirt.

Steven glanced down at him and felt repulsion well up—_'Look at what you've done; look at **who** you've done it to.'_—before determination coursed through his veins. There was no magic solution; no way to make things right. But he could still try his best. Maybe he could at least prevent Brendan from hating him forever. Pulling his charge closer, he stood, hefting the smaller boy up and carrying him bridal style.

Glancing at the clock—_1:15—_he winced. It was later than he'd expected, and they needed to get to a hospital. More specifically, they needed to already be at a hospital, but that was a sad impossibility, so they'd have to settle for getting to the nearest one as quickly as possible. The Pokémon center wasn't really advanced enough; it was meant for Pokémon, who were much easier to heal. No, he needed a real hospital. And the closest one he could think of was...

"Slateport," he muttered aloud to himself after a quick scan of his memories. It was a 20-minute fly; fifteen if you had a fast enough Pokémon and urged it to hurry. But Skarmory would be too hard to ride while carrying someone; it was smaller than a lot of fully-evolved flying Pokémon. _'Come **on,** Steven! _ _**Think!'**_ What could he do, what could he—

_'Connie!'_

It came back to him in a flash: a flash_back,_ to be precise. He could recall a familiar brunette with blue eyes—this version much more conscious than the one in his arms—sitting with him in his house, drinking coffee, and just chatting. He remembered very specifically—the boy had told him about the one Pokéball that never left his side, no matter what. And, unless he remembered incorrectly...

He hurried to the boy's bedroom, eyes darting across it in a quick sweep. Sure enough, he found a Pokéball on the boy's bedside table, and the Pokémon that emerged was a familiar Flygon whom Brendan had affectionately nicknamed Connie. The large dragon growled softly in worry when she saw her Master unconscious in his arms and hurried closer, her black eyes wide and concerned through the red-tinted shades that covered them.

"Connie, _please," _Steven started, catching her attention with his desperate voice. She looked up, her dark green antennae swaying side to side, and offered an almost Lillipup-like whine, asking for an explanation. "Brendan needs to get to Slateport's hospital. I can explain later."

Connie glanced at her Master reluctantly, knowing from her journeys with the boy that Pokémon thieves would often employ tactics like this. But Brendan shifted and whimpered, his brow furrowing, and Connie's expression evened out into a fierce resolve. She gave a sharp nod to show that she understood, shortly followed by a gentle hum of acceptance. She would let this strange man ride her. For her Master's sake.

Steven quickly strode over to the door, undid the safety chain, and opened it. The three ran into the hall and he approached the fretting Flygon, who bent over to give him access to her shoulders. He cautiously sat atop her back, careful to give her room to flap her wings. His grip on Brendan tightened and he bent over, laying flat against her back so that he wouldn't fall off even though he was unable to hold on like he normally would.

With one last glance at Mauville Hills, Connie took off, starting off slowly to give her riders time to adjust, then increasing the beats of her diamond-shaped wings, which began to give off their famous "singing" sound. As soon as she was clear off the walls of Mauville, she throttled up until she was hurtling towards Slateport at top speed. Behind them, Skarmory saw a flash of his owner's distinctive hair and took off from Mauville's tower with a shriek, leveling off at Connie's shoulder.

They made record time, and, soon, Connie was swooping down to land in front of the hospital, Skarmory right behind her. Steven jumped off before she could even land, crouching to absorb the impact before sprinting through the front doors. "Doctor!" he bellowed, turning heads and widening eyes as people caught sight of the bloodied form that lay limply in his hold

The next thing he knew was a blur of white as nurses and doctors swarmed him, their voices blurring together into one generic racket. He winced when their hands fell on Brendan, instinctively tightening his hold on his charge, and he had to physically force himself to let go. The doctors responded, taking Brendan from his arms, which painstakingly fell away at his brain's insistence. His subconscious was still hesitant to release the boy for fear of the man over the phone and his apparent hatred of them both.

His eyes never left Brendan. Not as he was loaded onto a bed and Steven's jacket was put aside, revealing the bloodied bandages that covered him. Not as a nurse, seeing the shell-shocked, guilty look on his face, placed a hand on his upper arm and told him, sir, maybe he should sit down. Not as she gently guided him back, his feet stumbling along if only because his mind was too preoccupied to resist, and sat him down in a waiting room chair.

Not until Brendan disappeared through the swinging double doors and, with a start, Steven realized that he was alone.

What now?

Well, obviously, he had to call May, but he couldn't seem to sway himself to move to do so. A part of him—the largest part of him—was terrified of what she'd surely have to say about the whole ordeal. He feared the accusations he excepted to receive; the confirmation that, yes, it was his fault. As it was, he could ignore the fact that he was such a disgusting, _revolting_ excuse for a human being. But when _May_ confirmed his fears; when another of his best friends was the one assuring him that he would never be accepted by his once-close companions again—he wasn't sure he could take that.

He didn't want to lose her as a friend, too.

_'Selfish,'_ his mind snarled, and he winced. _'You hurt Brendan, but you don't want to face the consequences, so you just neglect to tell May? You call yourself their friend.'_

And so, taking a deep breath for what must have been the millionth time that night, Steven pulled out his PokéNav with shaking hands and hit Speed Dial 2.

It took three missed calls before the disgruntled Champion finally picked up. Her voice was a grumble that, had he not known better, Steven would've very likely mistaken for a Houndoom's growl. "It's the middle of the _night,"_ she ground out forcefully, the anger in her tone enough to make an actual Houndoom freeze in its tracks. "This'd better be pretty _freakin' _important."

Steven readied himself for a violent bout of incriminations, content with the knowledge that he deserved it, and bluntly told her, "Brendan's in the Slateport hospital."

He had meant to follow that up with an explanation; to tell her shortly what had happened and admit that it was his fault. Before he could say any more, however, the sound of plastic on tile crackled through. After barely a second of pause, he heard several serene notes—the usually calming tune of the Eon Flute, which, today, gave him nothing but some extra dread in his chest. It certainly didn't help that May had played it at least three times faster than usual, the notes coming in such quick succession that they sounded jumbled and foreign to even his well-trained ears. Then came a faint but familiar "Schwaaaan!" followed by two loud _crash_es in quick succession, each of which sounded like, well, like a Latias crashing through a wall.

It really shouldn't have surprised him that May would call in Lissa through the walls. That sounded exactly like something May would do. In a way, it didn't surprise him, really. But, in every other way, it caused a cauldron of sudden panic to boil in his chest.

You know what else sounded like something May would do? Screaming at him for an hour straight; giving him a straight-up list of all the awful, selfish things he'd done over the course of the past hour and a half or so.

Just like he'd feared.

With no real control over his limbs, he turned, his mind racing and reeling, and sprinted out the door. Connie perked up, only to mumble in confusion when he ignored her, instead jumping onto the back of his Skarmory. He threw his arms around Skarmory's neck, took a firm hold, and yelled the first thing that came to his mouth—"Rustboro!"

Skarmory obeyed without question; he always did, because he respected his Master more than he respected any other person or Pokémon. All of Steven's team respected him; therein lay the reason he was such a strong Trainer. So Skarmory simply took off, his silver and red wings flashing in the small glimpses of light they saw, leaving Slateport behind and making a mad dash for Rustboro. Sensing the urgence of his Trainer's plea, Skarmory tucked in his head and sped up, going as close to his full speed of 140 miles an hour as he could without throwing his Trainer off.

No, Steven wasn't sure why he ran.

But, now that he was running, was he ever glad that he had.

* * *

><p><em>N'aaw. Poor, poor Steven. And poor, poor Brendan, too. And poor, poor Latias, having to bust through the walls like that to get to her owner. Honestly, though, I can totally see May or Brendan doing that, which is why I even thought to include it in the first place. It also has a lot to do with the fact that I hate always having to run outside before I can use the Eon Flute in ORAS, particularly in the Delta Episode, so, yeah... BIAS!<em>

_Next chapter: May finally comes in for more than five seconds and everything goes to hell and back! Will Steven get out of this alive? Obviously! But you could at least pretend to be in suspense or something; it's common decency, people!_


	5. Chapter Four: A Flawed Conclusion

_Here it is! The chapter where the angst finally starts to die down a little! ...sorta! ...not really...!_

_Well, at least May finally gets more than one line. I personally really like May, and I also really like Sapphire, her manga equivalent so I end up liking her even more. Still, though, I can totally see her being one of those "beware the nice ones" kind of gals—the ones where they're normally sweet as can be, but, if they get pissed? Run. Abandon your children and leave behind the weak. If you have doors, lock them. If you have windows, board them up. If you have ears, cover them, and hide, preferably in the fetal position!_

_...ahem. Anyways, I don't own Pokèmon; I DO own a Pokèmon game or two, but I don't actually own the franchise. Also, I'd like to give a shout-out to **TheSpookster** (Don't worry, Oneechan; Brendan won't be hospitalized/unconscious for the WHOLE story) and **Darling Grimm **(To be honest, I'm only just working out who it is myself, but let's pretend that I just knew the whole time...). Thank you both for reviewing!_

_Now let's get this show on the road!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four: A Flawed Conclusion<strong>

May was not a musical person. She was especially not a musical person at _one in the freaking morning._ But it only took two words to process in her brain (_Brendan_ and _hospital_) for her to instantly become the world's fastest player of the Eon Flute.

As soon as the frenzied notes had left the rare instrument, it joined her PokeNav on the floor, clattering away. She was unperturbed, even as it rolled under the refrigerator and out of sight. Right now, May only had eyes and ears for the approaching Latias outside her apartment. Detecting her presence far before the familiar cry, she grabbed her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and began to run the same way Lissa was flying. Just before she would've collided with a chair, she used it as a step and sprung up, fingers brushing against the ceiling, right as Latias came bursting through, catching her easily and continuing to fly.

She would pay the Petalburg apartment complex back later.

Splinters of wood showered the duo as they broke the second wall, but Lissa gallantly shielded her Master from the worst of it. "Lissa—Slateport!" May barked, and Latias immediately hightailed it for said city, more than a little panic in her movements. Her Master was _never_ like this—she always showered her Pokèmon with "please"s and "thank you"s. She most definitely did _not _just give a command and leave it at that, even if it was a simple command; that was one of the many reasons why her Pokèmon adored her so. She treated them almost even better than she treated humans. In fact, in Lissa's remarkable memory, the only other time the girl had acted this way was—

_"Lissa! I need to get to the Cave of Origin! **Now!"**_

—and that had been a dire situation if there ever was one. So, lowering her head and adjusting her tail fins, the worried dragon sped up as much as she could just short of literal break-neck speed. She didn't want to, well, break her Master's neck.

Amazingly, they made even better time than Connie, Steven, and Brendan had, touching down at just about 1:30. Jumping off her mount's back prematurely, May stumbled and fell but was up and running before she could even register her scraped knees.

The automatic doors didn't have time to open, so she pushed them aside; luckily, unlike most places, that didn't trigger the fire alarm. The staff, already weary from the previous burst-in, barely had time to turn their heads before she was at the secretary's desk, her eye twitching. The poor nurse took one look at her fuming face and bared teeth and scooted her chair back almost to the wall. "May I help you?" she squeaked.

_"Brendan Birch," _May ground out in reply.

The secretary seemed lost, obviously not sure what to do with that information, but her coworker quickly jumped to her aid. "You mean the Pokèmon League Champion?" she asked, and the irritated glance she received was enough confirmation. "He was brought in by the previous Champ just maybe twenty minutes ago. By now, he's probably been moved to a room, but visiting hours—"

A low growl escaped May's throat.

"—are flexible in certain circumstances," the nurse quickly amended, gulping and stepping back. "I could go check what room he's in...?"

"Do that."

"Yes ma'am!"

In a flash, the pink-clad woman was gone, leaving May to simmer in silence. Gritting her teeth, the actual Champion crossed her arms and tapped her foot rapidly, only now realizing that she'd left behind her clothing and still stood in her Skitty pajamas. The idea that she was still apparently so terrifying dressed that way was enough to bring a brief smile to her lips, but that fell away as soon as the nurse returned. May barely waited to hear "Room 112—" before she was off, muttering a begrudging "Thank you," to the stammering nurses she left in the waiting room behind her.

Room 109, Room 110, Room 111—_there!_ Her eyes locking onto her target, May forced her feet to slow, knowing that, otherwise, she'd probably run right through the glass door and wake up all the patients in this wing. With a stiff back, she threw open the door, unable to put any less force behind her arm, and darted in, immediately plopping herself down by her boyfriend's beside.

He was at least recognizable, she decided, although "okay" was a bit of a stretch. The brunette lay unconscious, his frame looking rickety and feeble under the piles of stark white hospital-issue bedsheets. It was strange to see him in a hospital gown without even his trademark white hat; he never left home without it, after all, and it took a lot of coaxing to wrestle it off of his head in the presence of anyone besides herself, his parents, and Steven. Plenty of strangers even assumed that his hair was naturally white and slicked back.

But then her attention was diverted when she saw a snatch of bandages peaking out from under the gown. A frown covered her face. As odd as it was to see him in a hospital bed, it was even more disturbing to see him wrapped in any amount of bandages. Looking more closely at his face, she could see a slightly split lip, and his arms had very clear handprints etched onto them in reddish-purple. That was nothing compared to the deep, angry ligature marks that encircled his wrists, painting an even clearer image in her brain. _'He was tied_ up.' Too tired to be properly enraged, she glanced towards a glimpse of black that she'd seen and noticed for the first time that Steven's jacket was hanging over the foot of the bed and soaked in blood._ 'But I guess Steven found—'_

_**'Steven.'**_

Now that she thought about it, where exactly _was_ Steven? He'd been the one to take Brendan in, he'd apparently lent the boy his jacket, and he'd also been the one to call May after the fact, yet he was nowhere to be found. She knew him; he was a laid-back person, sure, but, when it came to his friends, he was a _huge_ worrywart. There was absolutely no way that he'd leave Brendan behind in the hospital, even if he had known that May was on her way.

That was when Brendan stirred restlessly, his brow furrowing, and a groan escaped his mouth.

All other matters forgotten, May was out of her chair and at his side in an instant, her hands flashing towards his and clutching them tightly. "Brendan?" she called gently, all of the anger gone from her voice. "Can you hear me? It's May."

For a moment, his face was serene as he weakly returned the grip on his hands, as if to accept her comfort and comfort her in return. But then his face suddenly contorted and wrinkled once again, his arms falling limp in her grasp as he lost his last bit of awareness. "N-no... no, please—d-don't..." he mumbled, and May gasped in horror. She immediately released his hands out of sheer instinct, watching his face with wide eyes as he whimpered. "Please—please..."

May lurched forward and placed calming hands on his shoulders, but the sleeping boy only flinched and seemed to otherwise not even notice. "Hey, come on, Brendan," she soothed, "it's okay. You're alright now. It's just me."

His brow only furrowed even deeper as his pleas began to become more frantic. "No, please," he begged in a hoarse yell that escaped as only a whimper, his voice breaking right along with May's heart. "Don't hurt me!"

His face twisted itself into the very image of betrayal.

_"Steven, please!"_

May froze.

Eventually, the half-conscious boy tossed and turned with several mumbles before succumbing back into the void of complete unconsciousness, but May had no such luxury. She remained rooted firmly in place, as if turned to stone or stuck in time. The words she'd heard replayed themselves over and over in her mind, refusing to give her peace. Slowly, her brain began to connect the dots. Steven had been the one to find him and bring him to the hospital. Steven's voice sounded dead, almost _uncaring_ over the phone. Steven had left after telling her where he was.

_'He knew Brendan would be able to identify him. He ran away.'_

No. He's Steven. He's a perfectly trustworthy—

_'—former Champion who certainly has the strength to overpower Brendan, not to mention the fact that Brendan would just open the door and let him in without even a little bit of a fight.'_

But he never hurt anyone; not even his worst enemies warranted any sort of violence when it came to him—

_'Even the peaceful can snap.'_

Remember when you were out walking and those thugs attacked him? He didn't fight back; he just sat there and took it until you chased them away with Swampert because he didn't want any more violence than necessary—

_'Even the patient have limits.'_

Remember when Zinnia crushed our last hope and he, out of everyone in the room, was more shocked than actually angry—

_'The innocent don't run.'_

She didn't remember leaving Brendan to his sleep; by the time she'd regained awareness, she was already storming outside, her face far more pissed than she thought physically possible. Not only was her mouth curled into a snarl, displaying vicious fangs, but there were also tears dripping silently from the corners of her eyes. She had no intention of stopping now. Reaching for her Eon Flute, she paused when her hand grasped thin air and roared in frustration, pulling at her hair. She'd dropped it back in her apartment in Petalburg, hadn't she? And, of course, since this night couldn't get any worse, her Pokèmon were all in Littleroot with Brendan's team, having all agreed to perform in some tests for Professor Birch. "Dammit, Steven, where are you?!" she yelled at no one.

Before she could muster up the energy to start throwing things, a familiar cry luckily intervened. Blinking, she turned around to see a green and red dragon with diamond-shaped wings. "Connie?" she asked incredulously. "When did you get here?"

Of course, Connie was unable to respond, but she did land right in front of May, stooping low as if to ask the girl to climb onto her. She knew this human—she'd known that other human only vaguely, but this was May, the Trainer whom her Master had obviously had a crush on since she moved in when they were both around 14. She also knew that the human from before was named Steven, although that was about the extent of her knowledge, and she most definitely knew where he was. He hadn't really made much of an effort to hide it, after all.

May offered one last dubious glance before sighing, shrugging, and boarding the anxious Flygon. Connie quickly took off, rejoicing that she could move faster and turn sharper now that she had only one rider.

About halfway there, May called down, "Are you taking me to Rustboro?" and the dragon yipped happily in response, nodding her head and swaying her darker antennae. "Is that where Steven went?" She got the same reaction. Clenching her fists as her eyes narrowed, she leaned down closer, as if that would make the fly go by any faster. She didn't know exactly what Steven had done, but she knew that he had hurt Brendan, and it was no accident—no, he'd very purposely tied up her boyfriend _(her trusting, happy-go-lucky boyfriend who would never trust the man again, thank Arceus) _and beat the teen up. For that, he deserved nothing if not pain—absolutely _nothing_ if not a slow and arduous torture that would make _him_ beg for mercy, the worthless—!

_'May.'_

She caught herself before that train of thought could ride any further and exhaled harshly, running her hand over her face. No. She wasn't going to do this. She wasn't going to start hurling accusations and deciding upon worthy punishments before at least hearing Steven out. She trusted the Champion enough for at least that. Deep inside, though, she knew, however many times she told herself this, that it changed very little, at least in her attitude towards the man. No matter the explanation, nothing could justify hospitalizing the sweetest boy to ever drag his feet through Victory Road. And there wasn't a person in the world who could convince her that it hadn't been Steven now. Not even Brendan himself.

Rustboro's Pokèmon center faded in from a blurry red dot to a familiar red roof with a Pokeball on it. Connie swiftly pulled back up and landed rather harshly, immediately letting May off. A very distinguishable Skarmory was perched on the out-hang, and he turned with a curious treble as the brunette stormed towards the door, channeling all of her rage into her facial expression.

The doors hummed open.

She was inside in a flash, pushing aside some unfortunate Ace Trainer or other who had been in her way. Immediately, she caught sight of the silver-haired ex-Champ who was pacing across one side of the room. He was rather hard to miss, in his red scarf, vest, and slacks. As she barreled towards him like a raging Donphan, she could see him blanch and spin around, panic flashing across his face. _'Good,'_ was all she had the patience to think at the moment.

He threw up his hands in surrender, but May took none of that, instead seizing him by the arm and dragging him away. She could hear him stumble and trip behind her as his legs tried unsuccessfully to keep pace. Then the Rustboro Pokèmon center was left to its peace as she pulled him out the door, quickly heading to the long-since-abandoned work post in one of the shops nearby.

"May—" he began, but he was cut off when she slammed him up against the wall much as she imagined him having done to Brendan. He glanced around like a caged animal, but she missed the fear and guilt that ran across his face, only focusing on how Brendan was hurt and he wasn't hurt and _he had hurt Brendan._ Reaching up, she tugged harshly at his scarf, forcing him to bend down and look her in the eye, and gave him the most livid, betrayed, heart-stoppingly accusing glare she could possibly muster up.

"Care to _explain," _May snarled dangerously, "why my boyfriend is _unconscious _in the hospital and he keeps _begging_ you to stop in his sleep?"

* * *

><p><em>And there you have it!<em>

_...what?_

_I did say that the angst "sorta" stopped. Did you really expect anything more? Really now. Did you?_

_I feel really, super bad for Steven at the moment. Like, even worse than I feel for hospitalizing Brendan. He was put into the worst situation imaginable, he was forced to hurt his closest friend, his closest friend didn't know the situation and begged him to stop, making him feel even worse about himself and convincing him to blame himself, and now May is jumping to conclusions (that she has the right to jump to) and is blaming him vehemently just as he feared._

_So, yeah. I'd hate to be him._

_Next time! Steven gives the full story! Will May still blame him? Probably not because she's a good person and I did mention a happy ending! But pretend like you don't know how this story's gonna end, m'kay? M'kay._


	6. Chapter Five: Of Worth and Use

_And then the angst starts back up again. I promise there'll be happier times in the next chapters, okay? Promise! Even if there will be a lot of angst to wade through until then. It'll hopefully be worth it! Otherwise, I'm not a very good writer, now am I?_

_A huge thanks to **TheSpookster **(Yeah; good thing it's a dragon so it probably has scales), **Briarfrost **(W-wow, thank you!), and **Guest1267** (Sorry, but it looks like the angst is back full-force...) for the reviews! I would've posted a bit sooner, but I had a Geometry test for which I was 40 minutes late, so I was in school for way longer than I should've been. Especially considering my delicate sanity._

_DISCLAIMER: I don't own Pokèmon! My brain is too dead from my Geometry test to make jokes!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five: Of Worth and Use<strong>

If people had been around to witness May's interrogation, they would've painted some very bad pictures in their heads. As far as any onlooker could see, she had Steven pinned to a wall and he was nothing but a scared and repentant victim. Really, that was basically how it was. But May was too consumed by fury to properly see the look on his face; through her distorted lens, all she could see was the face of the one who'd hurt Brendan.

_"Well?!"_

He flinched and was suddenly blindsided by a sense of déjà vu. Her eyes, although the same color as Brendan's, were much less teary and much more angry. _'She deserves to know the truth,' _he convinced himself, even as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he instinctively began to edge closer to the door. _'Besides, you deserve anything she throws at you, so stop complaining and man up.'_

Seeing her once again grow impatient at his lack of a response, he quickly cleared his throat, glancing down dejectedly at his shoes like a puppy getting scolded by his owner. He took a deep breath—_'Don't flinch away; take it like a man,'_—and muttered, "It was me."

In an instant, her hand had found its way across his face, and the loud _slap_ of flesh-on-flesh resounded throughout the room. He allowed himself to fly aside with the blow, stumbling to his knees and staying there, hunched over on all fours as if he was begging for May's forgiveness. He knew in his mind that it should hurt; he should be hissing in pain and holding his reddening cheek. But, strangely enough, it barely seemed to sting or even ache—it didn't hurt _enough, _in fact, to satisfy him. No, he was already numb. _'A luxury Brendan didn't have.'_

So when May hauled him up by the collar, bringing them face-to-face once more, his eyes weren't the ones misting. Instead, her own tears were pooling up, the snarl on her face wavering as she let out a tiny sniffle. "Why?!" she roared, her voice cracking although she refused to acknowledge it. "How could you?! I thought you were our _friend!"_

Steven, unable to bear the sight, looked away. "So did I," he mumbled under his breath. He hadn't meant for May to catch it, but she did anyways, and a flicker of confusion ran across her face.

"What do you mean?" Then it was gone, and she was nothing but pissed once more. "What did you do? _What did you do, Steven?!"_ she demanded, shaking him slightly but not striking him again; she'd composed herself just barely enough to stay her hand. That didn't mean she didn't _want _to; if she had her way, she'd be doing to Steven exactly what he'd done to Brendan (whatever that was). But a faint sense of justice whispered in the back of her head, "Don't sink to his level, May. Don't become him."

Steven winced at the utter heartbreak clearly visible in her eyes alone, not to mention the rest of her expression. _'You did this,' _his mind wouldn't stop reminding him. _'You put that look there. You put Brendan in the hospital. He was begging for mercy in his sleep. You're going to haunt him for the rest of his life.'_

He once again took a deep breath to calm himself, then he began his tale.

"I got a call on my PokèNav," he began, but May interrupted him with a glare.

"What do I care?" she challenged.

"Trus—" This time, he cut _himself_ off. Asking May to trust him now would be like asking her to just ignore what he'd done. "It's important," he assured instead, seeing the skeptical look on May's face. "Really. Otherwise it won't make sense."

Grumbling in exasperation, May motioned for him to go on. Great. Just what he'd wanted—to relive the entire night. _Just. Perfect._ He prepared to issue a long and rambling speech as he gently closed his eyes. He could take the words of accusation and the strikes that were sure to come, but it was the _looks_ that killed him—the utter resentment manifested in the faces of those he'd once called friends. So he would keep his eyes closed and hope and pray that he wouldn't have to open them any time soon.

"I got a call on my PokèNav at midnight, and it was from Brendan. But when I picked up, there was just this little girl begging me to help her."

He couldn't see it with his eyelids screwed shut, but the hatred on May's face was quickly replaced with surprise, her eyes widening to an almost impossible size. Of all the things she'd expected, that was not even close to being on the list.

"I asked what was wrong," Steven continued, unfazed, "but then this man—I don't know who it was—took the phone from her. He knew who I was—he called me by my full name—and he said that he'd called so late so that there'd be no witnesses."

If he'd paused long enough to allow, May would already have stopped him several times over. Slowly but surely, as his story went on, detailing the events of the night, the betrayal on her face dripped away, leaving only horror in its place.

"I asked him who he was, but he wouldn't say. He did talk about Brendan, though—he mentioned Professor Birch, and he knew about Brendan's new apartment and everything. But then he said that he had kids with him and he—" Steven stopped for a second to collect himself. "He put them on speaker and... they all started to beg me for help, too. They didn't—didn't know my name, but..." Here, he trailed off once again, unable to continue.

May still hadn't let go of his collar, but that escaped her notice. She couldn't take her mind off the words that replayed themselves over and over in her head. Threats. Blackmail. He'd been _blackmailed. _Of course Steven wouldn't hurt Brendan—_'Remember when we were out walking,'—_he was far too peaceful; far too kind—_'and those thugs attacked him?'_—he didn't have the strength in him to hurt an Illumise—_'He didn't fight back; he just sat there and took it,'_—he even apologized when he fought wild Pokèmon—_'because he didn't want any more violence than necessary.'_—and he never started a fight in his life and oh, Arceus.

_"I thought you were our friend!"_

_"So did I."_

She wanted to stop him then and there, but she never got the chance, because he finally calmed himself and immediately chugged on. "He told me to go to my porch and that there would be a box there, and there was. There was an earpiece he had me put in, and then I hung up and he kept talking to me on that." Here, he rifled around in his pocket for a second before removing said earpiece, as if to authenticate his story. "There was also—some r-rope and a blindfold. He had me ride to Mauville on Skarmory, and he told me what to say on the way, but he said—he said that if I didn't do it or if I tried to warn Brendan, the kids would die, and—"

His voice began to quiver and finally died out altogether; he swallowed thickly and cleared his throat, still refusing to pry his eyelids open for even a split second. "I went into Brendan's apartment—he just let me in; he asked if I was okay—a-and I... threw him into the wall and started kicking him." Every time his voice faltered, he would squeeze his eyes shut a little tighter, as if berating himself, before starting right back up. "Then I took off his shirt and tied him up and started to hit him with my belt—" Once again, he couldn't continue.

May's eyes, by this point, were overflowing with silent tears as they focused on Steven's face. There was nothing in his expression but remorse and self-loathing, and she was suddenly aware of just how much of that self-loathing had been inspired by her. _"How could you?!" "I thought you were our friend!" "What did you do?" **"What did you do, Steven?!" **_She had screamed and screamed and tore away at his fragile mind until he was convinced that it was his fault when he'd only been protecting a group of kids. She abruptly noticed that he was still hanging from her hands and, in her panic, dropped him onto the floor much more harshly than she had intended. But he only winced a bit and continued to speak, as if she hadn't done anything at all.

"He made me—" _'Don't blame it on others, coward.' _"I—I hit him with it fifteen times," he swiftly revised, saying it in such a way that, had she not already known, May wouldn't have guessed that he'd been forced. "And—and then he said it was a pleasure doing business with me and hung up, and—and I bandaged Brendan and then flew him to the hospital and—and—_please, May, don't tell the police!"_

May blinked, torn from her dread-filled daze. "Wh-what?" she stammered as it finally occurred to her just what it meant that he truly blamed himself. The _police? _It had been the world's purest form of _self-defense—_hell, it hadn't even been self-defense; he was protecting _others._

But she didn't have the time to voice her opinions out loud. Steven clambered forward out of the blue, getting down on his hands and knees once again. "Please, don't call the police yet; I have to find out who took those children, and then I'll go to jail for however long I have to, but, please, just let me find him first," he pleaded, his face contorted into some desperate shape.

"Steven!" she cried, frightened by just how _scared_ he was of her, but he cringed at the word and cowered lower. She saw his face, the red handprint on his cheek making her stomach drop, and her actions came back to her once more. Oh, Arceus. She'd done exactly what Steven had.

Falling to her knees, she peered closely at his face for only a second; that was all she needed to see the tiny droplets accumulating in the corners of his eyes. She flung her arms around his shoulders and squeezed, feeling him jump in shock. "Steven, no," she said frantically, "don't say that! I will _never_ call the cops on you because—because it's _not your fault!"_

He froze.

No. She hadn't said that. This was just his mind playing cruel tricks on him—giving him what he wanted so that it could tear it out from under him. It had been just minutes ago that she'd flung the incriminations he'd expected at him without cease. What could've possibly changed her mind so quickly? It didn't even occur to him that she had just gotten the full story for the first time.

"It's not your fault," she repeated in a whisper, pulling him even closer. "You didn't do anything wrong, Steven. You made the right decision. Brendan will understand."

It was then that the reality crashed down on him. The arms around him were real, May was real, and her words were real. Hardly daring to breath in case it shattered the illusion, dragging him back to the harsh reality, Steven slowly lifted his arms and wrapped them around her. But she did not break; she didn't let go and continue to shout at him. Tears spilling over, Steven tightened his grip on the girl, deepening the hug. He needed it. He needed some form of comfort—even if some part of him still refused to believe that this was really happening. May gently rubbed his back as he was racked with sobs. "Shh, it's okay," she whispered, just as she would've done for Brendan.

"H-he kept _begging _me to stop," Steven sobbed, "but I _didn't. I just kept going._ And I _wanted _to comfort him, but I _couldn't_ because if I made one wrong move—" He stopped with a gasping breath and broke down, allowing May to comfort him as he wept. He wept for the kids, he wept for May, and he wept for himself. But, mostly, he wept for Brendan, who still couldn't escape the torment he'd been forced through, even while he slept.

Brendan would understand, yes.

But Brendan didn't understand yet.

That was enough to warrant the tears.

He eventually managed to calm himself down, but the burden on his chest refused to budge. Somehow, talking about it hadn't helped. He still couldn't bear to look May in the eyes for fear that he'd see animosity there instead of sympathy. And yet, as he pulled back from her embrace, he couldn't help but glance uncertainly at her face. She didn't _look_ angry. She didn't _look _spiteful, or blaming, or disappointed. She looked like she understood. She looked like she _cared._

"May?" he breathed tentatively, testing the water to assure that she wouldn't suddenly become the same girl who'd dragged him out of the Pokèmon center not ten minutes ago.

She didn't. She just looked up at him curiously and replied with a soft "Yes?" Allowing him to talk. _Encouraging_ him to talk.

"Do you think I'm... _worthless?"_

Then the anger returned, just as he'd feared, but it was somehow soothing. Instead of recoiling from the evident rage, he relaxed even further, the tension in his shoulders finally ebbing away. "What?! No! Steven, don't think like that!" May commanded, taking him firmly by the shoulders and squeezing—not to hurt him; not anymore. Just to assure him that she was there; she was there. "You aren't worthless. And you aren't useless either, so don't even think about asking!" she added, intercepting his next question smoothly. "If it wasn't for you, those kids would be _dead, _you hear? You didn't do anything wrong."

Sorrow clouded his eyes. "But Brendan doesn't know that," he stated simply.

She winced. He had her there. "No," she began carefully, treading lightly for fear of setting off the man's delicate self-esteem, "he doesn't know that. But I can tell him when he wakes up—and do you have any idea how happy he'll be?" She was rather proud of herself for managing to find a positive in the situation. "He'll be overjoyed to know that you are still his friend. He'll be fine."

"The welts will scar."

For a long moment, she didn't respond. Then her eyes fluttered closed. "They will," she affirmed solemnly. "But scars fade, Steven. All scars fade. And even if the physical ones last, that doesn't mean the mental ones will, too."

There was silence between them; comfortable silence, yet oddly mourning and baleful. It seemed almost sacred; as if there would be a divine punishment for he who broke the moment. But Steven couldn't honestly care less about that. "He will blame me."

"No, he won't." That was all she said. It was so obvious that she felt there was no need for any evidence.

"What if he does?"

"He won't."

The two locked gazes. Fierce cerulean blue met sharp slate-gray. Neither backed down; both were too sure of themselves. For at least a few minutes, time seemed to still as they sat in silence, battling with neither words nor blows.

Steven looked away.

"Okay."

He still didn't believe it. He wasn't sure he ever would.

* * *

><p><em>NO TIME TO EDIT MUST SLEEP BRAIN HURTS PLEASE REVIEW THANK YOU<em>


	7. Chapter Six: Stars, Falling or Otherwise

_This right here is a chapter that took longer than I thought it would take. Textbook example. I know, I know: I really suck; I fail at all of the things._ _But I have excuses! A: Geometry is hard. B: I had, I kid you not, 7 school papers to write. C: I kept getting sidetracked by other projects, although none of them got finished, either. It was not a fortuitous week._

_Next: I have the most thanks to give that has ever been given in the history of thanks and/or thanksgiving. Specifically, to one of the following, but I don't discriminate, so I won't say who it is. You know who you are. Anyways, thanks to **Shinenite **(Thanks! I was going for "intense," and what came out was a lot of angst.), **Guest1267 **(Thank you a lot, and, yeah, to be honest, I'm still working out the antagonist side of the spectrum, hehe...), **GuestWow **(Thanks a lot! And I don't know who said the geode thing, but they were right, and possibly my hero, too, ehe.), **TheSpookster **(I know, right?! Geometry just kills my brain cells like an epidemic...), and **Darling Grimm** (Thanks again, and there was absolutely no way I could keep up the "May hates Steven" angst much longer; I'm too much of a sap). Thank you all; there was an astounding amount of support for that last chapter, and I'm really and truly touched. ^^ Although I guess the chapter still came out pretty late, ehe..._

_Anyways, we finally get another brief respite from the angst. Enjoy it while you can, 'cause Brendan's waking up for good next chapter, and then it'll be back with a vengeance._

_DISCLAIMER: I own absolutely nothing. Except for the plot, of course. And the antagonists. And the writing itself. And myself. And my moniker. And... okay, I guess I own a lot of things. But I don't own Pokèmon or any of the things contained therein. So let's do this!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Six<br>****Stars, Falling or Otherwise**

Brendan didn't want to wake up, so he didn't. His eyes fluttered open only momentarily before they closed once more, lulling him into the realm of sleep that he'd only just left. There was probably some part of him that knew it was time to rise; he couldn't just flee from his problems forever. But the rest of his brain told him to just drift away back into the warm void, and his brain could make a very compelling argument when it needed to. So he slowly sunk back into the pleasant hum of his dreams, not wanting to face reality just yet.

* * *

><p><em>"I'm just saying that it's a more common problem than people let on!"<em>

_May replied through a snort, morphing her syllables into more of incredulous chuckles than actual words. "Oh, yeah, sure! Because Wurmples are **so** hard to catch!" she teased, the sarcasm in her voice so heavy that it was a wonder her words didn't fall flat on the ground before they could reach their target. The amount of bemusement on her face was matched only by the amount of crimson burning on Brendan's cheeks._

_"I just didn't—It's not like—I already—It's just that__—" His inability to stammer out a full sentence in his defense was really not helping his case. May only threw back her head and laughed happily in response, quickly joined by her newly-found partner, a Mudkip lovingly nicknamed Desmond who sat contentedly on her head, peeking out from between the tails of her bow. Brendan looked down helplessly at the Treecko nestled in his arms with a whisper of "Spencer, a little help here?" To his chagrin, the green lizard himself was struggling to stifle his chuckles._

_Glancing between the three, Brendan looked down at the ground and pouted, his manner a bit juvenile for a Trainer who planned to travel the entire Hoenn region. When he thought no one was looking, however, he glanced back up with a good-natured smile of his own. He and May locked gazes for a moment and she offered him a thousand-watt grin, reaching over to tousle his hair through his hat. He yelped, his blush returning full-force, and brushed her hand off. Again, booming laughter rang through the woods. "Sorry, sorry," May giggled, waving her hands in a placating manner. "I didn't know it'd bother you that much."_

_"No, you just surprised me, that's all," Brendan assured, still blushing a little but successfully hiding it. Reaching up, he straightened his hat, tucking back in a few strands that had fallen out. "And, by the way? I've caught at least twice as many Pokèmon as you have, so I don't really think you're one to talk."_

_**"Irrelevant!"**  
><em>

_As they laughed and bickered amongst themselves, strolling through Petalburg Forest, no one would ever guess that they had barely just met. May had literally just moved in that very day, and it wasn't like they'd known a lot about one another before that. He thought that she'd be a boy and she hadn't even known of his existence. Yet here they were acting like best friends who'd never seen a day without each other in it, when, really, they should be nothing but notable acquaintances at best._

_The warm scarlet light of the setting sun bathed them as they continued out of sight._

* * *

><p>A quiet groan punctuated his awakening.<p>

In an instant, May was hovering over him, her face just a familiar blur to his wavering, pitching vision. "Brendan?" she called, her voice echoing and distant, as if shouted to him from the end of a long tunnel. "...endan? Bren...?" Why was May here? Why were the walls so bright? Why was the harsh smell of antiseptic assaulting his nose and stifling him? _'The hospital. You're in the hospital.' _Oh. That makes sense. But why? _'Don't you remember?' _No, I... I... what...? Why...? N-no... what happened...? What happened?

Brendan blinked his eyes blearily, clearing out the tears that had started to manifest there from the bright light that shone directly into them. No matter how many times he did so, though, they just came back as soon as he re-opened them. "Nngh..." he groaned, squeezing his eyelids shut and turning his head away, the light somehow too intense even when he closed them. He shifted to shield his face.

_Pain pain pain._

A hoarse, strangled cry clawed up from his lungs, sticking in his throat like shards of glass. In the instant he'd turned even slightly, the skin on his back pulled taut and lines of red-hot agony coursed through his veins. He immediately froze in place, trying to avoid another bout of fire, but was unable to stop himself from quivering where he lay. May's feet pounded against the floor as she darted out the door, her pink-pajama-clad form disappearing around the corner. "Nurse! Nurse! The pain medication_—_it's worn off!" she cried, her voice slowly fading.

What was that? What hurts? Why does it hurt? Oh, Arceus, it _hurts. 'You don't remember. You forgot.' _No, I don't remember—what happened...?! _'Remember. Don't you remember? Try to remember...'__  
><em>

Panting for breath and struggling to keep himself calm, he barely felt the way his previously slack IV suddenly pumped something into his veins. His mind grew sluggish, his reason melted away, and, in the moments before he fell asleep, all he could think was _'Oh, thank Arceus... it doesn't hurt anymore.'_

* * *

><p><em>He stood on the edge of the beach, his feet slightly sprinkled in soft golden sand. The brilliant blue of the ocean spread out before him, marred only by the vague and distant shape of the shore. That would be Petalburg—he could see the forest. His eyes, which were a marvel to look at, challenging even the sea, shone as he smiled. He supposed that knowing Littleroot was so far away should be disorienting, maybe even scary. But it made him feel nothing but pride. He'd made it this far. His dream was drawing ever closer with each Pokèmon he caught.<em>

_"Brendan!"_

_Jumping slightly at the unexpected call, he spun around, the end of his hat flapping slightly in the wind. Spencer, now a Grovyle, also turned his head, interested but rather nonchalant. Racing towards him with her arm waving through the air was May, her eyes sparkling happily and her bright red bow bouncing on her head. Running along behind her was Desmond, having long past evolved into Marshtomp, and a few other various Pokèmon._

_She slowed to a stop in front of him and immediately reached forward, rustling his hair as well as she could with his hat still there. His face reddening slightly at the habit she seemed to have picked up, Brendan quickly reached up and pulled his hat back down from its off-kilter tilt. "May!"_

_She looked genuinely confused. "What? I thought you said you didn't mind—what part of that wasn't okay?"_

_"The part where my hat almost fell off!"_

_"...oh." She blinked once; twice. "...Oops." Reaching around the scratch the back of her head, she offered a sheepish grin._

_Sighing, Brendan mentally berated himself for making the situation awkward. "What did you need?" he offered, trying his best to show that he was more annoyed with the situation than with her. It seemed to work like a charm, because she instantly brightened, the glimmer in her eyes returning with a vengeance this time at least three times brighter. Taking a step back, she opened her arms and, as if on cue, her Skitty hopped into her arms, nuzzling into her shirt. As she spoke, she stroked the Skitty's head, eliciting several purrs._

_"Well, I'm heading off to Slateport, and I thought you might join me?" She bounced in place, her energy too bountiful to let her rest. She really was a bubbly girl, wasn't she? "It's fairly close to Mauville, so I thought you'd probably heading there now that you've got the Knuckle Badge—" Here, she motioned nonchalantly towards the blue-and-orange badge that glimmered on the front of his shirt. "—and I've got a ride with Mr. Briney. Are you in or are you out?"_

_Brendan contemplated his options for a long moment. On one hand, he already technically had a ride on the ferry, which he'd already payed for. But, on the other hand: May. The thought of spending the somewhat tedious ride to Slateport with her was immensely appealing to him. Not to mention the fact that his Pokèmon would have the chance to mingle with hers, and he never stopped being guilty that they pretty much only got to see other Pokèmon when it was to battle them. Money or May? The answer was pretty obvious. "Sure; why not?" Her company was just too good to pass up._

_Not that he liked her or anything._

_May immediately burst into cheers. Without any further ado, she seized him by the hand and dragged him towards the port where Mr. Briney stood, watching them with a knowing smile. As they hopped on board, thanking him heartily for his help, Brendan could've sworn he heard the old man mutter, "Young love," but he brushed it off as his imagination._

* * *

><p>When his eyes opened this time, the problem of the bright light that blinded him had apparently been solved. Namely, the lights were off entirely, and the only illumination came from the moon through the open window and a dim lamp on his bedside table.<p>

This time, his senses were dull and his mind was slow. He attempted to sit up, but his limbs refused to listen to him, and he instead just shifted slightly, triggering a faint ache in his back. _'I wonder what happened there,' _he thought groggily.

In a flash, the events of his last flight of consciousness came back to him and his breath began to speed up, the heart monitor next to him beginning to beep more frantically. _'Arceus, I'm in the hospital. What happened? I still can't remember—'_

_'Look next to you.'_

He confusedly followed his own advice and his heart immediately softened. Slumped over in a hard plastic chair next to his bed was May, her face peaceful in sleep. She'd changed out of the Skitty pajamas she'd been wearing before and was clutching his hand comfortingly in both of hers. Obviously, she'd fallen asleep at his bedside. The thought erased a great deal of panic from his mind, and he softly gripped her hand in return, although he wasn't sure whether it was to console her or himself.

At his gentle squeeze, her own eyes drifted open just before she harshly snapped into awareness. "Brendan!" she whisper-yelled, standing so suddenly that her chair rocketed backwards and tumbled to the ground. "Are you alright?" She leaned over so that they were almost face-to-face, her eyes worried, and something slipped off her shoulder.

His attention caught—_'What was that all about? She doesn't wear a jacket or anything.'_—Brendan glanced curiously down, May's gaze following his, and saw that someone else's jacket had been draped over her shoulders like a blanket.

A very familiar black jacket with purple zigzags on the sides and silver embellishments on the cuffs.

_A flash of black, purple and silver; cold fingers grabbing his collar and throwing him aside. A bolt of pain as he collides with the wall. A look of animosity on a usually composed face, now contorted into this angry shape. Steel-blue eyes burning with malice that wavers only once as he cries out. A foot colliding mercilessly with his stomach over and over and over and **over...**_

It takes only a microsecond for a gasp to erupt from his lips and he scrambled backwards, eyes widening in horror. No. _No. _ _**No!**_

As May's worried calls and comforting hands on his faded from his knowledge, he collapsed in a dead faint, his eyes closing themselves quickly as if to remove those images from his mind.

* * *

><p><em>They sat alone, but that was all the better for them. Their legs dangled down into the pleasant warmth of the sea, their hands placed as braces on the coolness of the ashen white stone that characterized Sootopolis. As they slowly looked up in unison, flocks of Swablu lead by one majestic Altaria glided by overhead, their cloud-like wings dyed scarlet in the light of the setting sun. Far over the distant horizon, they could see just a sliver of the golden sun, its light reflecting in beams off of the waves topped with foam.<em>

_That sliver submerged—slowly, ever so slowly—and the sky faded to navy, dotted with pinpricks of stars. Still, neither said a word. Behind them, their Pokèmon frolicked happily, Desmond the Swampert and Spencer the Grovyle as their overseers. The brilliant silver of the moon wasn't as bright as the sun, but it was just as radiant, and the two companions basked in it like Glameows in the sun._

_"Look!" May cried suddenly, throwing her hand forward and pointing. Brendan obeyed, turning to the vast swath of sky spread above them._

_The first meteor sailed, leaving behind it a long streak of light. Then there was another, and another, and another. Flashing green and blue and white, they illuminated the sky only fleetingly, but their beauty balanced out their brevity. "Wow!" Brendan breathed, his voice as awed as a child on Christmas morning. "They're pretty!" Later, he would fret over the simplicity of his speech and how childish he sounded, but, right now, he honestly couldn't care less._

_The two turned simultaneously, both beaming, and a set of cerulean eyes met its twin. Both had just intended it to be a quick glance, perhaps a grin, but they found themselves stuck fast as soon as their gazes met. The smiles did not fade from their faces, but they were entranced, staring mutely._

_Their hands were so close, and inching ever closer now, their palms scraping harmlessly against the smooth rock. Unbeknownst to them, their Pokèmon had gone silent, watching their exchange intently. Closer, closer. If they stretched out their thumbs, they'd collide._

_May closed her eyes, tilted her head to the side, smiled, and closed the last few inches, taking his hand in hers and lifting them both up. He startled slightly, jumping, but didn't attempt to pull away. His wide eyes met her shining ones and she smiled again, anxiously but encouragingly._

_Slowly, his hand gripped hers in return, reciprocating the feeling, and he returned the smile, relaxing._

_Stars fell from the sky behind them._

* * *

><p><em>I finally get to write a bunch of sappy HoennShipping! ...yay!<em>

_Okay, as much fluff as that might have been—and as much of a leap that was from "Angst: the chapter" (the last chapter)—it was actually a lot of fun to write. With any luck, it will also be at least moderately fulfilling to read, if only because Brendan finally gets a break. Well... sort of. And it was just a memory, so it was more like "got" a break, or "previously had" a break... but still!_

_Next chapter! Brendan finally wakes up for good and hears the good news about Steven! How will he react? Will he forgive Steven? Will Steven forgive himself? Why did the nurses never object to May pretty much staying there 24/7? How can you be intimidating in pink Skitty pajamas? Is the Lake of Rage physically capable of writing one single chapter without a ton of angst in at least one part? Does anyone not know how this story is going to end? Why are you even reading this? Possibly maybe find out the answers to some of these questions—and more—in the next chapter of... _Ultimatum!


	8. Chapter Seven: Of Somewhere and Nowhere

_We wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry_—

_*dodges rotten tomato*_

_Alright, alright; this was way too late, especially when my previous updates had been so prompt. And, yes, this chapter doesn't really have too much action in it, either. But I have an excuse in that IT WAS CHRISTMAS, you silly goose-muffins! GOOD NEWS, TOO! For Christmas, I got a laptop, meaning I don't have to worry about my parents and siblings hogging our computer anymore, so I might be able to type up the chapters faster!_

_About the action (or lack thereof) in this chapter: you should know that the next chapter will be probably the most action-y yet, by which I mean there'll be _actual _action rather than just a crap ton of angst, angst, angst, and more angst._

_A big shout out to **TheSpookster **(See, Oneechan! I told you that I'd get this chapter out eventually!) and **GuestWow **(Thank you so much for the support! Just from your reviews, I can tell that you're a pretty stupendous writer, yourself. ^^) for the reviews! I promise that chapter eight won't take this long! ...I should _not _be promising that; this probably means that chapter eight will take several months or something. But I'll try my very best to get it out within a week; two at the most!_

_DISCLAIMER! I got a lot of awesome things for Christmas, but ownership of the Pok__émon franchise was not one of them! That _would_ be a nice present, though. GET ON IT, SANTA!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seven<strong>  
><strong>Of Somewhere and Nowhere<strong>

Steven hadn't gone into Brendan's hospital room for more than a few seconds yet, and he didn't plan on breaking that record any time soon.

Partly, it was because of his obsession with finding phone guy, as May had so eloquently named him. Enlisting the help of a Porygon he'd borrowed from Professor Birch, he endlessly toiled over the earpiece and flew rapidly between towns as necessary. At one point, he tracked down the children in Lilycove, all of whom had been identified after May went to the authorities, and apologized to them and their parents, but that was the only break he allotted himself. Other than that, he just raced around like a Ninjask with a Castelia minute to spare. Sleep was sporadic at best and nonexistent at worst.

It'd been four days.

Phone guy was probably laying low in Kalos by now, lazing around in Lumiose with a smoothie in one hand and a magazine in the other.

May, on the other hand, was much more focused on getting Brendan healed first. That wasn't to say that she was any more tranquil than Steven on the matter of phone guy; no, no. Anyone who wanted to incur her rage needed only to make a passing reference to him, although most found it to be an unwise decision. But she was almost as much of a worrywort as Steven was, so she was kept glued to the boy's bed by her hair. Steven would usually have been on her side, but this time, he was the cause of all this chaos, so he couldn't very well greet the boy when he awoke. Still, May practically demanded that he at least remain nearby in case Brendan did wake up and wanted to see him.

So, although he would much rather not be near his victim at all, and although he seriously doubted that the boy would want his attacker anywhere near him, he planted himself firmly in the stretch of hallway just outside Brendan's room at May's insistence. Several times, he would see a nurse glancing over at him in sympathy and, although anger always welled up at those glances, he would just smile pleasantly at them, always a gentleman.

He could never bear to look at Professor Birch or his wife when they came to visit, though. He ignored their looks constantly, afraid that, if he dared to glance up, their eyes would prove to be contemptuous. He'd barely been able to bring himself to ask the Professor to borrow the Porygon he was so proud of, even though May assured him that she'd explained the situation and the man didn't blame him.

Soon, he had a system. He'd wake up at maybe ten past midnight from a nightmare, having only gotten a few minutes of sleep; walk a half-mile to the hospital from the hotel room he'd rented for the time being; sit in the hallway with Porygon for the entire day, sometimes stopping to use the restroom and even less commonly pausing to devour something he'd hurled into his bag that morning; walk back to his apartment just before midnight at May's command; and get maybe ten or twenty minutes of sleep before startling awake once more and restarting the cycle.

The fifth day after the attack had gone down a little differently, beginning with the fact that he'd been making quite a bit of progress with Porygon today. In fact, for the first time since he'd started working, he actually was getting somewhere. The pink and blue mass of coding had been able to slip through a locked door in cyberspace and found an encrypted blob that would tell the location of the device on the other end of the call. Porygon working on decoding the numbers to triangulate a location. It wasn't exactly any sort of conclusive evidence; certainly not damning. But it was something. And he'd previously been mired firmly in a long marsh of "nothing," so "something" was quite the development.

But that wasn't exactly the highlight of the morning.

As he shifted uncomfortably in the unforgivingly stiff plastic of the chair, the serene environment of the room behind him suddenly fell into pandemonium. Startled out of his exhausted stupor, Steven blinked rapidly. _'What on earth...?' _The former champ looked over his shoulder through the small swath of window he could glimpse past the half-closed curtains, the slightest bit of panic creeping through him at the ruckus. There seemed to be nothing amiss. Brendan was still laying limply, at least. In the unrelenting hospital lights, his pallid but not quite sickly skin seemed at least ten times worse; almost grotesque. But he was no more harmed than he had been the last time Steven'd seen him.

Then May rocketed into his small area of vision, tearing the cap off of a bottle of water, and those bright blue eyes, supposedly devoid of consciousness, weakly but surely fluttered open.

* * *

><p>The first thing that Brendan became aware of was that his throat was about ready to crumble apart.<p>

In other words, he was more than thirsty: he was absolutely parched. It was to the point where opening his mouth was difficult, as the small amounts of saliva on his tongue acted as cement between it and the roof of his mouth. He attempted to moan in pain as his throat cracked and disintegrated, but all he managed to produce was a barely audible wheeze.

May perked up in her seat, dropping the PokéNav on which she'd previously been fooling around. "Brendan?" she whispered under her breath, unsure if it'd just been her mind playing tricks on her and afraid she'd get Steven's hopes up. The brunette boy shifted visibly, once again letting out a raspy cough, and her spirits suddenly soared. Slowly, his eyes peeked out from under their lids, his wandering pupils landing finally on May's shocked face.

_'Water.'_

The thought occurred to her immediately and she spun around frantically, diving for her bag and beginning to dig through it rather noisily. Behind her, Brendan moaned and closed his eyes again, the light too blaring for him to withstand. He could just barely hear her fumbling around for something and tried to smile, but his lips cracked as they pulled tight, and he quickly reset his expression to its default. Anyone looking at him would assume he was asleep.

Then feet pounded back towards him and he forcibly opened his eyes, determination his ally but light his mortal enemy. Hovering over him worriedly, her caramel bangs hanging close to his forehead, May gently offered him a plastic bottle full of the most heavenly liquid he'd ever seen. Needing no prodding, Brendan hastily reached up and took it in his hands, sitting up partially even though his back twinged in response. Tugging it to his lips, he tipped it back and began to chug down the water, neglecting to pause for air but not really caring. He had been so dehydrated that it burned his throat, but, at the same time, it acted like the most soothing of balms.

Once his thirst was sated, he slowly pushed the bottle away, breathing heavily. May tenderly took it from his trembling hands, but he didn't take notice. His eyes were wandering dully around the room, taking in his surroundings without actually comprehending any of the information they received. A familiar life-sized Lapras doll was laying across the foot of his bed, keeping his toes toasty; no doubt, it had been hefted up by May. The numerous framed photos propped up on his bedside table and fluffy stuffed Teddiursas tied to huge clumps of balloons all around the room were also likely her doing. _'The hospital. I'm in the_—_'_

Suddenly, his eyelids once again slammed shut and he sucked in a huge gasp as everything came back to him, one fact by one. Waking up in the hospital several times before; the burning pain in his back; the suit jacket that had slipped innocently off of May's shoulders—

_He writhed in agony, a scream tearing itself up through his already raspy throat; sticking there like shards of glass, because, by Arceus, it hurt, hurt, hurt. "Steven, please!" he sobbed, but it was a senseless thing to say. Obviously, this wasn't Steven. Even if it was Steven, it couldn't be... it just couldn't be... But it was. Yet another flash of pain fractured his trust and marred his back. As he screamed and cried, he knew that the one assaulting him was the same silverette that he so obstinately wished to believe had never entered the room._

Brendan tried desperately to regain control of himself, beginning to hyperventilate slightly. Eyes turning down on the ends in worry, May placed a frigid hand across his forehead and he jerked back. His eyes snapped open just in time to see a blur of silver, purple, and black dart away from the small bit of window that was unobstructed by curtains, but he brushed it off as paranoia. What use would it be for Steven to come here? He'd already fully witnessed the devastation he'd caused. Besides, he could just glimpse part of a Porygon near the edge of the curtains, and Steven most definitely did _not _have a Porygon; his father never stopped gloating about how he had one of the ultra-rare man-made Pokémon and how no one else in Hoenn did. Yes; it was probably his father.

He must have been so worried.

May's concerned face took up his vision. "Are you alright?" she fretted, placing a hand over his and squeezing gently. Just a simple glance at any part of her face was enough to see that she was sick with worry, and her clothes were rumpled and wrinkled, clearly having not been changed in quite some time.

Suddenly overwhelmingly guilty at how much she'd already sacrificed for his sake, Brendan looked down ashamedly at his knees. "I'm fine," he reassured, although May didn't seem convinced. Glancing back up to look her in the eyes, he offered a sincere, "Really. I'm okay. I just... remembered what happened."

May's face became suddenly analytic as she scanned Brendan's expression thoroughly. "I... see." There didn't seem to be quite the extreme reaction she'd been expecting from someone who'd been attacked by such a close friend. In fact, this was exactly how she would anticipate him to act if the same thing had happened, but by a complete stranger. Suddenly, her chest was simultaneously constricted with dread and ringing with joy. On one hand, this could mean that he didn't remember. On the other hand, if that was true, than he most likely _would_ remember at some point—and then it would be ten times as devastating as his world crashed down around him for the second time.

Looking more closely at his eyes in particular, though, she could catch a hint of hidden torment. Phrasing her words carefully, she softly queried, "Do you happen to know who did this?"

_'Steven.'_

Steven: his best friend; the man who he'd, at one point, trusted beyond anyone else; almost beyond even May, although it wasn't quite that far. Steven, the former Champion who was ever-gentle and ever-patient; the man who never could bring himself to hurt anyone except for Brendan. His best friend who he trusted. His _best friend_—who he _trusted._

In an instant, May saw a million emotions run rampant in his expression: anger, remorse, betrayal, desperation, uncertainty; even quite a bit of guilt, as if there was something he blamed himself for. Then, just as suddenly as they'd been let loose, they were contained and his face became apathetic. His gaze returned to his knees.

"It—it was just some kid," he muttered. "I didn't recognize him."

For a moment, there was nothing but a tense silence between the two. Even the rest of the world seemed to hold its breath, sensing the blatant lies that he'd just spewed. Because he most definitely knew Steven, and Steven wasn't a kid, much less "just some kid." Receiving no response, Brendan peeked up through his bangs, daring to assess her expression. He saw nothing but pure sorrow manifested there. A wistful smile plodded its way across her face, although it was too forced to light up like her usual grins and beams.

"You don't have to protect him, Brendan. I already know."

He froze.

Snapping his head up almost fearfully, his bangs falling out of his face, he appraised her intensely. She was dead serious. His face contorting, he whispered miserably, "But—but _how?" _He'd been so _careful_ not to spill the beans. He didn't want his best friend to get in trouble, no matter how much his subconscious screamed that the man deserved it. No; even as he recalled the harsh blows and bouts of agony that the man had given him, he couldn't bear to hurt Steven.

Not even if Steven had hurt him.

May gave a humorless little laugh. "He told me," she answered simply but truthfully, her hands placed over the boy's own for comfort. When he only gave her a bewildered stare, she sighed quietly, leaning closer. "I want you to listen very closely, Brendan." She paused, looking deep into his eyes as if to show him the utter importance of his rapt attention. Although evidently a bit frightened by her sudden, uncanny seriousness, he seemed to understand, because he reluctantly nodded his assent. "Steven was _forced_ to hurt you."

You could hear a Flabébé hit the ground.

"Wh-what?" Brendan choked out, his face just as distraught at ever but with a bit of realization slowly dawning across it, starting at his eyes.

Taking a deep breath, May recited the speech that she'd long since decided to tell the boy and rehearsed anxiously while he remained unconscious. "Steven got called by a man who threatened to kill a bunch of kids if Steven didn't hurt you. Once the kids were safe, he flew you here and called me." It was the cliffnotes version, but it was really all she had the patience to tell him before hearing his verdict.

For an unbearably long few minutes, the only sound was the _beep, beep, beep_ of the heart monitor at Brendan's bedside. His azure eyes stared blankly over May's shoulder as a million tiny memories rushed back to him.

The sweaty collar. The hesitant, jerking movements. The desperation on his face just before he was let in. The careful way he straddled the boy, his every action rehearsed. The faint sob he'd sworn that he'd caught as he screamed.

_"He's scared enough as it is!"_

He hadn't thought... How could he have...?

"What—but—" he stammered, struggling to breathe out even a word as his thoughts jumbled and tangled together like static-filled yarn. Finally, he stopped for a moment to collect himself, closing his eyes and rearranging his thoughts. "Are the kids okay?"

'Yes," May assured quickly, "they're fine. Shaken up and in therapy, but fine." She smiled bashfully, her eyes crinkling at the sides. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you as soon as you woke up; I thought that maybe you didn't remember."

Brendan allowed himself to reflect on that for a moment and consider just what it would've been like; not knowing the identity of his assaulter, only for his blissful ignorance to be torn away, dousing him in the sudden deluge of memories as if in boiling water... He shivered, for once glad that he recalled the incident crystal-clear. Even if it was painful, it was worth it. Almost.

"So...?" May prodded after a few seconds. Blinking, Brendan glanced up at her. She was looking at him expectantly and more than a little anxiously

"What?"

A faint, almost transient glimmer of desperation wavered in her eyes, only to be hastily extinguished. "What about Steven?" she muttered, clutching his hand like a lifeline to keep from biting her nails. He stiffened visibly at the man's name, and he seemed oblivious about the bone-pulverizing grip on his palm. "Do you want to see him? Are you going to press charges?"

That was all it took to startle him out of his stupor. "Charges?" he breathed incredulously, giving her the look one gives to a salesman who just asked them to buy a Potion for 1,000,000 Pokédollars. "Of course I don't want to press charges! Why would I even—?!" He cut himself off mid-sentence to gather his thoughts. Averting his eyes at first instinctively, then forcing his gaze to meet May's, he stated as firmly as he could, _"It wasn't his fault."_

The look on May's face was comparable to that of a kid getting his first Pokémon. The beam that dawned across her face was bright enough to rival a fairy-type Pokémon's Dazzling Gleam. She lunged forward, engulfing Brendan in an all-encompassing embrace. In most people's arms, Brendan would freeze up immediately and remain tense throughout; but, in the arms of his closest friends, he would only relax. This hug was no different. "I hoped you'd say that," she whispered, physically incapable of raising her voice, as his rigid shoulders easily yielded and went lax. "Oh, Arceus, how I _hoped_ you'd say that." She gave a small, almost hysterical laugh. "Maybe Steven will believe _you_, at least."

He didn't respond. He just gently hugged her in return, cautiously avoiding any chance of breaking the delicate scabs on his back, and closed his eyes, allowing himself to melt into her arms. May was right, and he was right. It wasn't Steven's fault; he'd been forced. If anything, his actions were heroic; Brendan couldn't imagine how hard this must have been for the gentle-hearted man.

But it was so much easier to decide Steven was worthy of forgiveness than it was to forgive him.

* * *

><p>Porygon let out a quiet electronic whine, its technicolor form gently ramming into Steven's shoulder, but he didn't react. He was too busy pressing himself into the wall so forcefully that, any second now, he was liable to crush himself into an archaeological pancake.<p>

He was huddled against the door, knees drawn up to his chest to keep from tripping any passing nurses, and his head was planted firmly in his hands. Each inhale was shaky and uncertain, as if he was having trouble sucking the breaths in. He didn't know _why, _though; it was beyond his comprehension. After all, this was exactly what he had wanted. Brendan _understood. _Brendan _knew, _and he _understood. _And yet he couldn't stop himself from quivering in unconstrained emotions that he couldn't name but were most certainly not what he expected.

Maybe it was the way that the brunette had _lied. _He was the culprit of what appeared to be an unforgivable, reprehensible crime, and his victim had tried to shield him from the consequences, even without knowing that he'd been coerced by a truly detestable man. He'd been afraid that the boy would no longer even be able to stand the thought of him; he hadn't anticipated _this._

In a way, this was so much worse, because it left him to wonder: if he'd decided to keep the incident under wraps, he would've gotten away with it easily. Obviously, if left to his own devices, Brendan wouldn't tell anyone, and, if Steven hadn't brought him to the hospital, May wouldn't have figured it out, either. He could have completely evaded punishment.

And he was already evading punishment.

Irritated by being ignored, Porygon slammed itself full-force right into Steven's chest, but the man didn't so much as flinch; if anything, he didn't seem to be aware of the slowly angering pocket monster. Growling out static-filled nonsense, Porygon suddenly crackled with electricity, then let loose a tiny zap. It wasn't enough to hurt the silverette, nor was it even enough to sting much; it triggered more of a tickle than anything. But it also made the former Champ shoot maybe a foot in the air with an undignified yelp.

Hissing urgently, Porygon motioned towards the PokéNav that now rested lazily on the man's black-clad knee.

Steven's heart skipped a beat.

In an instant, he was on his feet, snatching the machine faster than a Hitmonchan could ever hope to achieve. His hand hesitated centimeters from the doorknob. He needed to get the news to May _now, _but he couldn't risk Brendan seeing—

Without giving himself so much as a microsecond to debate himself, he turned on his heel and rocketed off towards the lunch court, where Professor Birch had recently relocated due to a nurse's scolding about bothering the patient. May was immune to such things, as the word of her terror-wreaking had apparently spread throughout the staff like wildfire.

Behind him, Porygon raised its head importantly, feeling rather pleased with itself.

At long last, it had results.

* * *

><p>Brendan was the one who eventually broke away, slowly untangling his arms from around May's back. Still, her hands remained on his shoulders, the warmth emanating from her fingers enough to keep him relatively calm. This time, when they met eyes and locked there steadily, she initiated the contact, her expression serious; almost solemn. Anticipating the question before it came, Brendan winced, his expression clearly troubled, and almost shied away from her comforting touch.<p>

She never got any further than opening her mouth, though, before Professor Birch burst through the door in a frenzy, his hair disheveled and his lab coat askew. Both Trainers' heads snapped around, eyes flashing, as they startled, but they didn't even have the time to register who it was before his jaw unhinged and words spewed out at an unimaginable speed.

"May, you have to come right now; Steven needs you and Lissa—**_we found phone guy!"_**

* * *

><p><em>*chuckles nervously* Um... cliffhanger, I guess?<br>_

_Please don't kill me!_

_Seriously, it's not really a bad cliffhanger at all, unlike the cliffhanger from the UNNAMED SHOW OF SHAME in the last episode of season 4. SPOILER ALERT: the unnamed show of shame is _Criminal Minds.

_ANYway, next time in _Ultimatum! _They've located phone guy! Steven and May are on the scene! Will they manage to apprehend the suspect? Who exactly _is_ phone guy? Did anyone here _not_ get the obvious FNaF reference? Find out in chapter eight of... _Ultimatum! _Goodbye, and Merry Christmas, everybody!_


	9. Chapter Eight: Losing It

_Happy 2015! ...I start Pre-Calculus in a little more than a week. *withers and dies*  
><em>

_So, yeah... random facts with Lake of Rage time! As it just so happens, I'm in an advanced math program that goes though two years' worth of math every year, so, despite me being in Geometry for the majority of this story, I am now moving on to PreCalc. And you know what that means? __FINALS. ARCEUS HELP US ALL._

_Anyways, that's why this chapter was quite a bit later than I'd excpected. Geometry finals. Also, lots and lots of writer's block. ...I think that's a valid excuse. Besides, this chapter is also longer than normal by about 1,000 to 2,000 words, depending on the chapter you use as comparison._

_All of my thanks to __**Darling Grimm **__(Thank you, and Merry Christmas to you, too!), __**Riverlightillusion **__(Hey, thanks! Yeah, I do overuse that word, don't I? Hehe... whoops.), **TheSpookster **(Technically, this is the fourth day, so close enough. XD), **Varupikusu **(I know what you mean about that, ehe. Thanks a lot, and Happy New Year!), **GuestWow **(Thanks again, and I do seem to use that technique a lot, ehe), and **Guest1267 **(Thanks, and I always wished they'd get rid of Pikachu instead. Maybe replace him with a Raichu. Happy New Year, very belatedly!). Really, if it wasn't for the staggering amount of support I'd gotten for the last chapter, I might not have stacked up and powered through my writer's block to get this chapter done. Thank you all so much!_

_Disclaimer: Do I really have to do this again? ...yes? Alright, fine. I don't own this series, nor am I making any money off of this. Honestly, it's not _that_ good. Although I guess Stephanie Meyer got super rich, so I might be setting my bar too high._

_Oh, and, a little tip? Don't flame. It's a hazard to your health. Seriously, I might seem like a tolerable person, but I have the temper of all tempers, and I might explode if you just start shooting indiscriminately. Flaming will light my short fuse faster than you can say "freindenemapanion." If you got any of the three references in this paragraph alone, you are my new favorite person._

_In any case, here's the next chapter! ...duh._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eight<br>****Losing It**

It took May approximately zero seconds to register the Professor's hurried words and rocket out of her seat, already slinging her bag over her shoulder rather than taking the time to secure it around her waist. For a moment, she considered stopping to give Brendan a proper goodbye, but her nerves would not allow it. As much as she loved the brunette, she was _not_ going to let phone guy get away.

"I'm sorry, Brendan," she called as she rushed towards the door. "I promise to be back soon!" She flung the doors open and, as they swung shut, cried a sincere "I love you!" that she hoped would make her absence less of an abrupt transition. The frosted glass panes banged back together, leaving Professor Birch and his flabbergasted son alone in the stark whiteness and strong smell of antiseptic that the hospital had to offer.

Leaning heavily against the wall just outside was Steven, his suit rumpled and his chest heaving noticeably with every breath. Despite his obvious exhaustion from his admirably fast sprint to the Professor and back, he immediately matched pace with the fuming Champion, half-following and half-leading her to the door. "Lilycove," Steven muttered simply, wary of the nurses constantly hurrying to and fro. They really didn't have time to pause for a lecture from some Muk-for-brains, Swirlix-headed windbag who apparently could hear anything louder than a whisper through her thick skull.

He'd never been tired enough for anyone to notice, but Steven became rather mean when sleep-deprived.

The very instant they cleared the hospital doors, May whistled out a hasty tune on her Eon Flute, immediately stuffing it into her pocket afterwards. _'3...2...1...' _ And there was Lissa, like clockwork; first a pink speck in the vast expanse of azure sky, then growing in size as she shot through the air, breaking clouds upon impact. She slowed down only minutely as she approached her Master, but that was enough for the duo to leap onto her back as she passed.

Steven grasped at the dragon Pokémon's streamlined scales as his stomach rolled and pitched. An elating moment of weightlessness quickly transitioned into a sharp stab of pressure. His arms went slack and he flung himself onto the Legend's back, pressing himself against her to shield himself from the onslaught of wind in his face. Tightening his grip, he focused on recovering from the adrenalin that pumped through his veins full-throttle after a stunt like that. Of course, it was nothing compared to half of the ways May mounted Lissa, and she was completely unaffected, but he had very limited experience with boarding a moving flier, much less one like Latias, who was renowned for her jet levels of speed. As he collected himself, May yelled in a surprisingly even voice, "To Lilycove, please, Lissa."

The red-and-white dragon let out a merry "Shwaaaaun!" Her Master was back to her normal habits, evidently.

Sure enough, May wasn't the creature chemically composed of barely-sentient rage that Steven'd prepared for. No; her face was composed, her posture was relaxed, and her heart beat a slow, steady tattoo against her chest. This was the moment she'd been waiting for since she first learned of phone guy's existence. Even if he managed to slip through their fingers, his eventual capture was inevitable, especially if either of the two caught so much as a passing glimpse of his face.

But still...

What he had done to Steven and Brendan was abhorrent, to say the least. He'd utterly demolished her best friend's sense of self-worth, put her boyfriend through his worst possible nightmare, and torn an insurmountable rift between the two while he was at it. That wasn't even mentioning the fact that, in order to realize his plans, he'd abducted twenty freakin' _kids_ without so much as a shred of hesitation.

To put it simply, May was absolutely _pissed_ at phone guy, and she was practically famous for her inability to control her temper, so one would assume that she'd be overflowing with fury. And, in some ways, she was. It just took a close friend to notice.

Very few people knew—specifically, only her parents, Archie, Wallace, Steven, and Brendan—but screaming and rampages only went so far on her sliding scale of rage. If you managed to push her far enough, a feat most found impossible, she would exit her generic explosions of anger and enter a stage where she was almost eerily calm. That was when she was the most livid.

That was when it was probably best to run.

Steven found himself shivering slightly at the glacial death glare already building on her face. He remembered what that expression meant, and it wasn't pretty, to say the least. Nearly a full year ago, the Champion and Gym Leader of Sootopolis stood outside of the Cave of Origin for the second time that day, this time joined by Archie and May rather than Maxie and Brendan. The gloom of the situation was only highlighted as Archie ashamedly explained exactly what he'd done.

They were undaunted by the monstrous Legend that had just been awakened. The unstoppable rain clouds overhead? Please. But all three grown men had been reduced to terrified children when they first became acquainted with May's "calm anger" stage. Hell, he'd been fortuitous enough to never be on the receiving end of her icy glower, and he'd been practically scarred for life. He could only imagine what it must have been like for Archie, who was burdened with the full brunt of her anger. Steven would never forget how the muscular man suddenly began to quiver like a leaf in a hurricane, and then, before he could even figure out what was the matter, May let out a snarl that was somehow completely monotone, _"Please, continue." _Those words had haunted his nightmares ever since.

He almost pitied phone guy.

"So," May began calmly, her voice still harboring resentment but much warmer when talking to a friend, "how exactly _did_ you find him?"

Steven paused, glancing at her through his peripherals to make sure that she wouldn't combust at a moments notice, before cautiously answering, "Porygon was able to trace Brendan's PokéNav. Phone guy has called some more people since that night, including a call that's either just ended or is still going on as we speak. At the time of that call, aka right now, his PokéNav was in Lilycove."

May frowned, lowering herself a bit more against Lissa's back as she let go with both hands momentarily to readjust her bag into its proper place around her waist. "So, then, couldn't it just be someone else using his PokéNav?"

Steven shook his head lightly, his steel-blue locks falling even more out of place. "If it's someone else, then that person is in cahoots with phone guy, anyway. After all, no one could be tricked into thinking his PokéNav was theirs thanks to all the obvious differences between different ones, and, although there are people who would just steal it if they found it, almost everyone already has one, and a thief wouldn't just immediately start using it the second he found it." He pondered for a second. "Plus, it has his name programmed into it—and his Trainer ID. I can't think of anyone who would steal the _Champion's_ PokéNav, even if they did just find it laying on the ground."

Lissa swerved madly to avoid collision with some Bird Keeper on his Swellow, who gaped at the combo of two Champions and a Legend, and veered towards the ground, bringing Steven's attention to the growing expanse of Lilycove spread out underneath them. He'd totally forgotten how fast Latias could fly, but it appeared that they were already there. Considering how far Slateport was from Lilycove, that was rather impressive. Vaguely, in the back of his mind, he wondered how her two riders hadn't been thrown right off. Not that he was complaining.

Lissa swooped in for a landing, letting out a satisfied roar as she skidded across the ground until eventually dragging to a halt. May turned and hopped off, Steven following suit. "Thank you, Lissa," May said gratefully. Lissa just roared again with a reptilian sort of grin, then turned sharply and headed off, breaking clouds that stood in her path.

Turning back to Steven as he carded his fingers through his hair, May's face became dead serious with a sharp undercurrent of fury just barely audible in her voice. "Where is he?"

Steven fingered his Pokéballs with one hand and gestured toward a nearby building with the other. It was a ready-to-crumble old thing surrounded by a chain-link fence. Besides just looking suspicious, as it appeared to be an abandoned warehouse, it also just so happened to sport doors locked with conspicuously new chains and padlocks. And, as if that wasn't convincing enough, one of the doors' chains wasn't even connected to the opposite wall, making it appear secure at first glance despite its total lack of fortification.

Brow furrowing, May brushed her fingertips along her own Pokéballs, allowing them to linger on the bulbous gel packets and small carvings they bore. This way, she could tell which was which by a simple touch. She could only hope that her precautions would be enough. At any rate, she could at least assure that, were they to successfully engage him in a battle, they would certainly win, what with them both being Champions at some point and her running completely undefeated at the moment. Even if she did believe he might be better than the both of them combined, were that the case, there'd be no point in doing this sort of dangerous stuff for hire when he could just sweep through other trainers and make an easy living that way.

Briefly standing on his toes to survey the surrounding areas one last time, Steven turned and beckoned to the brunette, breaking her out of her reverie. Face setting into a determined glare, she slid after him, glad that she'd already learned the art of sneaking through tall grass. Both Trainers carefully clambered over the fence, then crept up to the walls beside the unlocked door. They stood on either side, backs pressed up against the concrete, and nodded to one-another silently.

Steven began to reach for the door handle, but May stopped him with a short wave of her hand. Reaching to her belt without looking, she grabbed a Pokéball and threw it, releasing a familiar Breloom. "Brianna, will you please Stun Spore the room inside when the door opens?" she requested quietly, and her Pokémon, naturally, nodded. "Thank you, Bri."

Smiling slightly at the sight, Steven once again placed his hand on the knob, this time receiving no interruption. May turned back to him and he held up three fingers. A nod. Two fingers. Her expression steeled, somehow becoming scorching hot and freezing cold at the same time. One finger. They both grasped the Pokéballs containing each one's heavy hitter. Zero fingers.

The door slammed open and yellow-green spores swept in, overtaking the room in an instant.

They heard coughing for a second, then, just as they were preparing to release their Pokémon and get ready to fight, a call from a bird. As they stepped into the doorway, a gust of air rushed past their ears, carrying the spores with them, and _they couldn't breathe_.

Both crashed to the ground, to shocked to notice the man in the center of the room who'd done the same. May clawed convulsively at her throat, fingernails leaving shallow gouges along the tender skin, but some rational part of her mind screamed "You idiot, what are you doing? He's going to get away!"

She tried reaching for her Pokéballs once again, but her arms could barely twitch and spasm in the proper direction. Gritting her teeth, she fought the shaky instability of her limbs, inching her fingers toward it (What was it she was reaching for again? She couldn't seem to remember...). Each inhale brought not enough oxygen to her lungs because the air capacity of the place was still crawling with spores. Her vision began to swim.

Then tiny green arms hauled her away from the stifling powder and she gasped for breath, wheezing and coughing. "Steven," she managed to hack, and Brianna immediately obeyed, rushing in to pull the silverette out of harm's way. But the paralysis had already set in, and she struggled to move at all. _'Damn it damn it damn it!' _she cursed mentally. _'Come on, May! You're stronger than this!' _Her fingers twitched. _'Do you really want him to get away?' _Her wrist spasmed. _'Don't you want to avenge Brendan?' _Her elbow bent and swayed.

_'Don't you want to put that bastard away?'_

She would have screamed in victory when she finally managed to clutch a Pokéball in clammy hands had she been able. Pressing the button, she dropped it unceremoniously, releasing a Swampert who immediately let loose a low growl when he saw the state his Master had been reduced to. "Desmond," she gasped, "in there." Without question, although he did offer her a prolonged stare of worry, Desmond turned and rushed into the building, immediately taking on a Swellow who'd managed to evade the attack and blow the remaining spores away.

Brianna, having gotten Steven to safety, quickly grabbed the fortunate Cheri berry her Master had seen fit to entrust to her just in case. Calling lightly, she got the stunned Trainer's attention and held it out. May managed to bring her hand over with a moan, but it quickly collapsed back onto her lap, so Brianna tenderly dropped the red berry into her palm. From there, it was just the not-so-simple matter of getting her dead limbs to respond well enough to get it into her mouth.

By the time she'd managed to hurl it between her teeth and mash it without finesse, phone guy's Swellow was running out of power, even though it could easily avoid many of Desmond's attacks due to its typing. It didn't help that, somehow, Steven's Metagross had joined the fight without her noticing. Swallowing the pulp, May could immediately feel the effects begin to set in. With her newfound ability to move again, she clumsily fumbled for a spare Cheri berry in her bag and practically dragged herself over to Steven, who had already managed to release his Metagross, Armaldo, and Aggron. How was honestly beyond her. It would've taken some serious force of will.

She carefully transferred it into his hand and he popped it like a pill, closing his eyes as he, too, felt the strength return to his muscles. Stumbling to her feet, she leaned heavily against Brianna for support, quickly appraising the situation. As she watched, the man she assumed was phone guy knocked a few Pokéballs off of his belt, releasing several more of his Pokémon. In return, May threw out her last four Pokéballs, and Steven hastily added his remaining three.

Steven turned to his team, having already decided upon a plan, and slurred, "Ca' you follow May fer a whi'?" They each made their own little call of affirmative as May offered him a quizzical glance. "I'm goin' af'er phone guy," he explained groggily, and she nodded, understanding his meaning.

Honestly, although she'd rather be the one to apprehend the man, it was probably best that she didn't. She was under no misconceptions: she would probably end up beating the crap out of him and being arrested herself. And it wasn't as if she'd get thrown into jail for attacking him, even if it wasn't really self-defense. No, she was worried she'd end up literally beating him half to death, at which point she'd be rightfully arrested. Or, at the very least, if she just hospitalized him, she'd lose her Trainer license.

Stumbling a bit but keeping upright, Steven quickly made his way to where phone guy was just swallowing his own Cheri berry, cursing the fact that the man had been prepared for the situation and kept one in an easy place to reach. Just as the man tossed the other Pokéballs from his belt, he pushed himself onto his feet and finally caught sight of the ex-Champ approaching him.

He blanched and Steven couldn't help but smirk.

Phone guy, as it turned out, was what appeared to be a fully-grown Ace Trainer, green hair and all, about Steven's age. He had a familiar PokéNav strapped to his belt. Still, Steven couldn't help but worry, even as he made to tackle the man, that he wouldn't turn out to be the right guy. He just couldn't really see phone guy losing his cool that much when something unexpected happened.

But he leaped anyways, roughly pinning phone guy onto the ground. They grappled for dominance and, unfortunately, phone guy managed to earn it, flipping the two over so that he was holding down Steven. By that time, he'd regained his composure, and any uncertainties about his identity went out the window when he muttered, "Mr. Stone." That voice. _That Arceus-damned voice._

This was most definitely phone guy.

Suddenly regaining fuel, Steven brought his knee suddenly into phone guy's abdomen, forcing the man to lurch to the side with a gag. Using the small window that was presented to him, he quickly pushed phone guy off of him and shot back to his feet, swaying with the small bit of remaining drowsiness. Phone guy was up just as fast and he threw a hasty punch to Steven's face. He managed to land it, but it lacked the strength to knock him down, and Steven quickly retaliated before he could flee, dragging him back onto the ground.

They became a flurry of fists and feet, sometimes brawling on the ground and sometimes fighting upright. Every time he got the opportunity, phone guy would make another desperate attempt to run away, but the sheer determination that coursed through Steven's veins was enough to augment his speed, so the Ace Trainer never made it. Both men were of about the same height and age. The difference between them, however, was that phone guy abducted kids and committed crimes over the phone through use of intimidation. As such a criminal, he was averagely built. Steven, on the other hand, although hardly a bodybuilder, was an experienced archaeologist and miner. You could never tell from under that expensive suit he wore constantly, but he had enough arm muscle to mine away at rock, and that was certainly enough to give him the advantage.

Before long, they were once again on the ground, Steven straddling the man _just like you did to Brendan. _He grabbed the man's flailing wrists with both hands _just like you did to Brendan_ and pinned them to the floor to keep him from getting away _just like you did to Brendan._

It only took one look at the man's angry, unrepentant face to tear down all the walls, breach all the fortresses, and utterly strip his mind of any and all self-restraint it'd managed to contain. He was exhausted. He was aching. But, mostly, he was utterly and absolutely _pissed _at the bastard under him.

Pulling up his fist, he punched phone guy in the face. _'Steven, you're losing it.' _As if he didn't know. He hit once—twice—thrice—more. _'Steven, you're_ **losing **_it! _Stop,_ you idiot! You barbarian! You hypocrite! Can't you see you're hurting him?'_ Four—five—six—seven. _'You're going to break something! He's in pain! Stop it! **Stop** it!' _Eight—nine—ten times in a row.

He drew his fist back and prepared to launch it, but another hand gripped his wrist before he could.

If it had been a harsh touch, he probably would have brushed it off. He might even have stopped only long enough to throw a punch in its direction without even thinking about who it was. But this was just a gentle squeeze; more of a request than a command to stop. He paused mid-swing, despite the fact that, had he brought his fist down, the hand would've just fallen away.

"Steven, please."

It was May, of course. He didn't know who else it would've been. But the rage-clouded mindset he found himself in couldn't help but be a bit surprised.

Tenderly, as if afraid he would break, May brought his hand back down to his side. He didn't fight; he barely even paid her any mind. He was too busy focusing on the bloody face of the man laying beneath him.

He didn't regret the first blow. He didn't regret the second, or even really the third. But there hadn't only been three, now had there? _'I thought that you wanted to avoid violence,' _his mind taunted. _'I thought you were the good guy who doesn't take out his anger physically._

_'You lost it.'_

Silently, just as May released his free hand, he reached forward. Phone guy flinched and he did, too. But he didn't stop. He just found the pressure point on phone guy's neck, looked directly into the man's eyes, tried to convey as best as he could a sincere _"I'm sorry," _and squeezed.

He wasn't sure whether to be overjoyed or ashamed that he was instinctively just as gentle as he'd been with Brendan.

* * *

><p><em>And there you have it! Phone guy finally captured and Steven loses his cool! Man, that was fun to write. But it ran pretty dang long, too.<em>

_Now, I know I said last time that I'd update quicker. But then I had Geometry finals to worry about, not to mention a nasty case of writer's block. So, this time, when I say that I hope to get the next chapter up soon, I mean it. And, with any luck, you'll be able to hold me to it._

_Next time! Phone guy spills the beans about his client and Steven's never-ending search for justice continues! Meanwhile, Brendan requires recuperation that only a certain silverette can provide. Will they find the client? Does anyone actually believe that they won't? Will Brendan manage to forgive Steven? Does anyone actually believe that he won't? What's your favorite Pokémon? ...no, really. I'm curious. If you read this and you plan on commenting, add in what your favorite Pokémon is. If you weren't going to comment, though, then you don't have to just to say your favorite Pokémon. Find out the answers to some of these questions, or at least the ones that were actually questions, in the next chapter of..._ Ultimatum!


	10. Chapter Nine: Mood Whiplash

_IUHSOFIUHOIUSHFOIUH IT'S BEEN LIKE A MONTH MAYBE MORE I'M SORRY PLEASE DON'T KILL ME IT'S FOUR IN THE MORNING LOL._

_To my reviewers: Thank you all for your tremendous support! I was planning on responding to all of you like I normally do, and I actually wrote those all out, but they got erased along with the first version of this chapter and forced me to start over, which is one of my many excuses for this being so dang late. It's currently *checks time* 4:18 AM, so I'm currently brain-dead, and it's all I can do to keep from melting on the spot._

_But here's a chapter. FISHEFOEUFHISUFH. Don't kill me if it's not up to par. I had THE SINGLE WORST CASE OF WRITER'S BLOCK EVER._

_Edit: Once it was a decent time in the morning and I had gotten some sleep, I came back and fixed a section that hadn't properly transferred from Google Drive to here. Specifically, the May-Norman fight part just sort of switched from sentence to sentence for no apparent reason. If anyone reading this finds another case of that, please tell me; I did re-read this, but I'm still rather tired and could easily have missed something._

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><p><strong>Chapter Nine<br>Mood Whiplash**

Frigid water splashed haphazardly across Steven's face, threatening to drip down across his shirt.

The soft, trickling rush of the faucet filled the small bathroom, the only other sound being the quiet electrical hum of the lights overhead. Twisting the sink's knob to ebb the flow, Steven leaned over the porcelain bowl wearily, placing his hands on either side and using his arms as braces. Slouching so that nearly all of his weight rested on the counter, he allowed his head to dangle limply from his neck. In the small pool of water that had gathered, even as it slowly drained away, he could just make out his reflection.

He stared in tense silence as the last bit of water slid down the drain.

Glancing back up at the mirror, he exhaled harshly through his nose as he took in his appearance. Wow. It had somehow escaped his notice before that he was a total mess. Hair in disarray; clothes rumpled and off-kilter; black bags under his eyes as if he was bruised—and he _was_ bruised, he reminded himself. Purple and striking was the mark that marred his cheek, its darkness noticeable on his wan complexion. Even more blatant were the array of black and blue splotches on his arms and torso, luckily hidden under his clothing.

Exhaustion blurred his sight and he was tempted to collapse, giving in to his body's demand for rest. Instead, he reached up to run a hand through his hair, not caring that he was drenching the locks he touched. _'Focus, Steven.'_ he ordered internally. Determination carved a line across his forehead as he willed the pitching from his vision. _'You still have to find out who Phone Guy was working for. You still have to make this right.'_

Drowning in self-pity was not an option, however alluring the idea was. He'd already _had_ this conversation; he'd already took a scathing look at himself and deemed himself fine. Now was the time for action.

_'Like the action that nearly got your Trainer's license revoked?'_

The reminder was unwelcome. He had admitted that his blows against that man were more than a bit excessive, and, although sympathetic, Officer Jenny had reported his crime. May, of course, had advocated for him, declaring his actions to be self-defense despite clear evidence otherwise. It also helped that the blows that had landed him in the hospital in the first place were _actually_ self-defense thanks to their tussle—apparently, it hadn't been his punches that had given Phone Guy his concussion, although they certainly didn't help; it'd been his mandatory tackles. In the end, after taking into consideration the circumstances and May's firm insistence that Steven was innocent, the Lillycove PD had decided not to seek further punishment, and he'd been let off with a reprimand and an order to pay Phone Guy's medical bills.

In other words, he'd committed an atrocity and gotten away with it. _Again._

Steven once again looked up at the mirror, this time peering into it the same way he would peer into a crystal ball—as if expecting it to hold the answers. He met his own gaze and held himself there, staring intensely into his bruised eyes. Dull stinging accompanied most of his movements, and holding this position only made it worse, but he would do anything to take his mind off of the bruise. A bruise which he _was not thinking about _because he couldn't afford to mope now even though he had so many reasons to detest himself—

And, heaving in a deep breath, he informed himself harshly that he was over it.

Not because he was truly over it, of course, but because he _had _to be.

"Steven, are you just sulking in there?" came May's weak attempt at a tease from just outside the door. At any other time, her attempt at comedy would've been appreciated. But now was _so _not the time, and Steven found himself getting annoyed despite himself. He had no right to be angry. But here he was, being angry. That seemed to be a common theme recently.

Sighing, Steven called back out a simple "One minute." Truth be told, he hadn't even had to go to the bathroom; he'd just wanted to prolong the inevitable demise that_ that_ _damn clean-freak hospital _offered him. Foreboding, it had continued to loom in the distance, and he knew that he'd have to return there eventually after he was released from police custody. Still, that didn't mean he was looking forward to it. For now, he was content to linger at May's apartment, the walls of which were still under repairs from the Lissa incident.

It didn't help that phone guy was bound to wake up soon, or that it'd probably be up to Steven to get him talking thanks to the fact that May still refused to officially report him (and, therefore, Steven).

"Oh, come on, Steven," May chuckled slightly in response, unable to see the silverette's obvious growing frustration. "You've been in there for long enough, don't you think?" She received no response; Steven was too busy composing himself; '_Yo__u have no right so don't you even dare get mad at her.' _"Steven? You still there?" _'In. Out. In. Out. Calm down. It's just May being May; there's no reason to get pissy_—_'_

"Don't make me call Officer Jenny again!" the brunette Champion joked.

_'Officer Jenny who should never have left; who should have left long ago, but only if she was escorting you away in handcuffs, but she left anyways without you, and you **got away with it; **you committed such a horrendous crime twice in a row and you get a scolding and a **mild fee**_—'

**_"Damn it all, May, would you shut your goddamned mouth for once in your life!"_**

Silence.

Then _"Oh Arceus, May, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it_—" But the words were too late, even spurting from his mouth as they did, because he flung the door back and May was already composed and detached and impartial and all of the things that _he _should have been. And she was telling him that it was alright, that maybe they both just needed some time to cool down and maybe some hot chocolate, and she was so right and yet so wrong because it _wasn't _alright; it wasn't alright _at all._

And, when she calmly led him to the kitchen, sat him at the table, and began to make some hot chocolate for them both, he pretended not to notice the tears silently falling when she thought that he couldn't see.

Steven's mind had a field day with that. _'Oh, great job, Champion,' _it sneered while he was still scrambling for purchase on the slippery slope. _'Look what you've gone and done **this** time_—_'_

May easily picked up on his dilemma; it wasn't like he was trying awfully hard to conceal it. _'No. No, he's gone through enough.' _A familiar face flashed through her mind and her lips curved downwards ever-so-subtly. _'Both of them have.'_ Chancing another look in the ex-Champion's direction, she felt a titanium conviction solidify in her chest. He had been through _more than _enough already, but that pain apparently didn't plan on alleviating any time soon.

So she decided to take matters into her own hands.

Leaning close with a growing smile, she placed the mug before him; waited for his eyes to be on her. _'Think of something. Anything to make him smile. Or at least get those thoughts he's probably thinking out of his head.'_ At first, she had no idea what to say, but she didn't draw a blank for long. Her smile widened ever so slightly, catching his attention, as a thought occurred to her. _'Perfect.'_

"Hey, Steven," she offered, her voice starting out quiet but growing progressively stronger with every word. "In that case, then that wasn't really a ..._basalt _on my character, now was it?"

In an instant, all of his thoughts of _my fault my fault my fault _were out the window.

"...what?"

"I guess..." Her smirk grew marginally until it was downright devious, catching him off-guard. "I just took your calmness for ..._granite."_

"..."

_'Objective complete.' _A triumphant beam replaced her smirk as she saw him stumble for words. Not really the reaction she'd been hoping for, but it was still a step in the right direction. Obviously, he had no idea how he was meant to respond to that, given the current situation.

Luckily, he never had to before the door burst open and in marched Norman, as if on cue, his expression steely and fierce as if he expected to be entering battle.

In an instant, May switched from exuberant to stone-cold (no pun intended this time). She knew. She'd been expecting this for a while—in fact, she was shocked it had taken him this long. Steven, on the other hand, wheeled around to face the Gym Leader, his expression quickly morphing from perplexed to shocked and back again. "Father," May offered coolly, her voice betraying none of the irritation she felt. "What brings you here?"

It was only a token question meant to buy time, and it seemed to do its purpose, because Norman paused, glowering. "You know why I'm here," he accused. "You know _exactly_ why I'm here."

The instant he'd crossed the threshold, May was on the defensive and he was on the offensive, both immediately losing their composure. They began yelling words that came in such quick succession that Steven didn't hear any of them, but he got the feeling that they _weren't _arguing about May's terrible rock puns. Then Norman was seizing her by the shoulders, shaking her back and forth while vehemently shouting **_"You need to sleep!"_**, and, the next thing Steven knew, he was dragging her out the door kicking and screaming with some help from his Vigoroth.

As they vanished, likely to Littleroot where her father could monitor her sleep, the door slammed behind them and Steven was left flabbergasted. Blinking rapidly, his eyes large and round, he opened and closed his mouth as he struggled to come up with words to accurately quantify his current confusion. "That just sort of _happened," _he finally managed, his voice uneasy. "I don't even know what it was; it just _happened_."

So, still unsure whether to be laughing or crying or both, Steven mounted his ready Skarmory and reluctantly made his way back to the hospital.

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><p>By the time he reached Slateport, he was still faltering emotionally, not sure how to deal with this mood whiplash. It seemed that May's puns had served their purpose, however; his mind was finally off of how terrible he was. How long had it been since he'd just let himself snicker at a terrible rock pun? Had it really only been just under a week since this whole charade began...?<p>

Exhaling harshly through his nose, Steven strolled through the hallways in the general direction of Brendan's room, shaking his head slightly. May was gone for the moment; that much was strikingly clear. Knowing her, of course, she'd be back sooner than later, with or without her father's approval, but, until then, he had no one to back him up. A sudden worry began to swell in his chest, draining away what mirth he'd managed to retain on the flight over. Up until now, he'd refused to talk to Brendan, and May had begrudgingly allowed them to remain apart despite the fact that phone guy had been in custody for two days now. This would hardly be the best reintroduction; Brendan was likely still petrified of him. What was he going to do if the boy woke up?

By the time he reached the room, he was nearly squirming in place with just the idea. He couldn't let Brendan think for a minute that May would willingly leave his bedside for long; it'd only been out of loyalty to another close friend that she'd volunteered to pick Steven up from the Mauville Police Station and, in doing so, leave Brendan alone. But he could hardly just walk in; the boy would have a heart attack.

Who knew how long it'd take May to return? After all, she was tricky and clever, but so was her father. He would absolutely _not _put it past either of them to go to ludicrous extremes in the face of this issue. Norman would likely resort to duct taping her to the bed if necessary. And May would jump out the window and swim to Slateport with her hands taped behind her back if that meant a quicker meeting with Brendan. So she'd either not be back until her father deemed it okay or she'd be here any minute now.

That was when faint wailing could be heard from the room just ahead of him.

Freezing in place, Steven felt panic begin to bubble in his chest. _'Brendan!' _Forgetting his vow of disassociation, he turned and barged into the hospital room without even considering the numerous consequences, eyes flashing in worry. What if the pain meds had worn off? What if—oh, Arceus—was he having another nightmare?

Apparently, he was being assaulted by nothing but his own mind, because there was no visible cause for concern in the room. There was just Brendan, still dwarfed among a sea of bedsheets, twisting and squirming desperately within a cocoon of blank fabric. His face was twisted into some indescribable shape: a mix of agony and despair that was enough to break Steven's heart all over again. "Nng... _no..." _he moaned weakly, obliterating some more of the ex-Champ's soul. 'See_ that? That's you haunting him, Steven. That's him being scared of you.'_

But there was no time for that now. Utterly forgetting that he'd decided _not _to intervene with Brendan's affairs until he knew the boy was ready, Steven rushed to his bedside without a second thought, inwardly cursing that Norman had picked tonight to force May to get some sleep. He wasn't good at this! He couldn't do this! _This was not his forte!_

Steven didn't delude himself; his childhood was far from difficult or troubled. He'd always had a house, more than enough food, and a loving, if eccentric, father. He'd even had a butler and maid who cleaned and cooked interchangeably, eliminating any need for chores. But that big mansion where they lived just meant that he never had anyone there to comfort him when he was afraid, so he'd just learned to deal with it. What he _hadn't_ learned was how to comfort others, and it remained something he was hopeless at to this day.

Now, looking helplessly down on Brendan as he tossed and turned restlessly, Steven felt that nagging stab of uselessness skewer him again. _'What do I do?' _he panicked. _'What do I **do?! **Come on, Steven! There has to be something! **Think!'**_

With too much to think about and no time to think about it, Steven placed his hands on Brendan's shoulders and shook lightly. "Brendan!" he called. "Wake up! Come on, it's just a dream!"

Brendan's eyes snapped open with a cry of _"Steven, please!" _Gasping for breath, he bolted upright, only to come face-to-face with a concerned silverette who'd totally forgotten who he was dreaming about in the first place.

A sinking feeling materialized in the pit of Steven's stomach. That quickly became a violent attack from at least seven different internal klaxons, each one blaring its siren at full volume. Only now he consider why he'd been planning on staying away in the first place. _'Shit shit shit what have I done?!' _Panic clawed at his throat, gouging huge tears, and he froze on the spot. Unfortunately, that meant he didn't have the time to get out of there before Brendan had already gasped in fright, his eyes widening. "S-Steven?" he stammered, already starting to clamber backwards.

May's calm anger didn't suffice. The incidents where the world nearly ended were mere trifles. No, none of those could even compete.

_Steven had never been more terrified in his life._

His mind raced madly—_'What do I do, what do I do, what do I **do?!**'_—and he found himself staggering back a few paces unintentionally. Whirling around with a cry of "I'm sorry!", he made a beeline for the door, seeing no other remedy to this chaos.

_'Shit shit shit I've ruined it I've ruined it_—_'_

But he didn't have time to reflect on just what he'd ruined. He wasn't at the door yet even though several moments had passed and that should've been enough to rocket him to the other side of the building. It took him a few moments more to feel the pull at his wrist; the iron hold clenched around it. It took him even longer to comprehend that it was Brendan's hold and those were Brendan's fingers clutching tightly to his sleeve.

"D-don't leave," he stammered, fear still running rampant in his every syllable. "Please?"

Steven stared blankly at the wall for a minute, unsure how to respond. _'Obviously, he's still scared of me. But I think he needs a friend right now, even if it's this friend.' _Once again, he found himself staring down an ultimatum with no clear answer. _'If I don't stay, I'll betray his trust even more. If I stay, I might hinder his healing process rather than aid it.'_

Finally, he swiveled around, his movements so stiff and mechanical that he was shocked his joints didn't creak like a robot's, and clunked himself into the chair usually reserved for May.

Brendan visibly relaxed, much to Steven's surprise, and reluctantly released the man's arm from his grip. "I'm sorry," he murmured underneath his breath, looking down at his fidgeting hands. "I... I just don't want to be alone right now and... I thought May would be here." He glanced back up to gauge Steven's reaction, ever-cautious. He knew that he was in no danger, but his subconscious kept screaming that _this was bad_ and to _get out of there now._

Steven, if anything, was far more wary than he; just in a different way. He scanned every word at least three times before saying it, constantly petrified that he'd say something wrong and set the boy off. Eventually, after much unneeded deliberation, he tenderly offered, "Norman dragged her off to force her to get some sleep."

For a split second, there was a smile on Brendan's face as he chuckled slightly. He could just imagine Norman pulling a struggling May out through the door, her flailing arms occasionally latching on to furniture and dragging it with her. Then it was gone as he realized exactly what that meant. If he'd been successful in detaining her, she'd be with him for the rest of the night at least. If not, she'd probably have already been back by now with Lissa's help.

He could handle just being next to Steven, but he couldn't withstand an entire night.

The two lapsed into an awkward silence, neither willing to be the first to speak up. Steven was waiting for Brendan to take initiative to assure he didn't talk about anything too soon. Brendan, on the other hand, had a million things to say but seemed to have forgotten how to compose a proper sentence, because every time he opened his mouth, the words he'd prepared stuck fast between his teeth.

_'Just say something!' _he commanded himself, brows furrowing. _'It's not that hard! One word in front of the other, Brendan!' _All of his thoughts jumbled and tangled in his mind, becoming one incoherent mass of sounds. He had to express how he felt. He had to tell it like it was. He _had_ to.

"Steven," he finally managed to choke out, immediately catching the man's attention, "I wa—"

_I want to talk to you _was what he'd meant to say, but he accidentally cut himself off. Once again, he was unable to force the syllables. Steven's eyebrows curved up in understanding and he offered a sad smile. "You don't have to talk if you don't want to, Brendan," he assured. "I mean—I'm here to listen if you want to talk, but..." A frown appeared on his face. "I'll understand if you don't have anything to say to me."

Brendan let out a shaky exhale. No. He had to do this _now. _He _had_ to. Now if only he could make his mouth understand the importance of the situation, as it clearly didn't. It continued to stutter and crack as he scrambled for words that fell away from his reach. "I can't—Steven, I _need _to—I have—" He stopped, sighing in both frustration and a tired acceptance, and looked up to stare directly into the ex-Champ's steel blue eyes. "I—I don't know Steven—I just..."

He trailed off, his gaze gradually making its way back down to his feet.

I just don't know. I just need to talk. I just want to forgive you. I just can't seem to forgive you.

_I just wanted you to stop._

Again, they were enveloped in silence, Steven waiting patiently for the brunette to either finish or decide not to. When no end to that statement seemed to be forthcoming, he took a deep breath to calm his nerves and tenderly reached out, barely laying his fingertips atop the younger boy's shoulder. "Brendan?"

As soon as he was acknowledged, he began, knowing that he had to start talking now or he'd never be able to get the words out.

"I don't know if you can forgive me... I don't know if you'll ever be able to forgive me... but I just want you to know—" He could feel his eyes redden. "—that I am _so, so sorry_ for what I did, and I would never, _ever _harm you willingly, and that... and that you did nothing wrong. You didn't provoke me; you didn't do anything to make me dislike you. I _don't _dislike you. And... and I want you to know..." His voice was starting to crack, but no one dared pay that fact any mind. "...that I will do anything to make this right, even though there's no way I could ever really atone for it."

Swallowing thickly, he continued, fully aware that he was starting to ramble. "Anything at all. I'll—I'll give up my position and title—I'll release all my Pokemon—I'll—I'll shave my head and get a tattoo that says 'I'm sorry' on my face—" At this, Brendan couldn't help but smile a little, even if it was past tears. "—I'll dye my hair and change my name and swim to Unova and never come back! Whatever you want."

Brendan probably should have been touched by the gesture, but he could only muster up a faint sense of shock. "You would leave Hoenn?" he whispered incredulously, eyes large as Electrodes. _This _he wasn't expecting. Maybe an apology, maybe a plea for forgiveness, but never an offer to leave the _region_. That would mean starting all over from page 1. Getting a new house and a new job; leaving behind everything he knew and severing all of his bonds.

"Of course," was Steven's immediate answer. "I don't want you to be haunted by this, Brendan. You don't deserve this." Taking a deep breath, he looked up and locked eyes with the alleged Champ, making sure that he knew just how little he was kidding. "You deserve better." He then promptly redirected his gaze to his feet, unable to hold the other's stare for any longer.

Seeing how somber the mood had become—how somber Steven had become—Brendan quickly scrambled for something to say; anything to break the tension. Come on, come on, come on! He had to think of something! Um—rock puns! Yes, there were a billion rock puns he could think of, and they would break the mood and probably give everyone mood whiplash, but he didn't even care. He had to do this. For Steven. Arceus knew Steven had already done plenty for him.

"Hey, Steven," he called, catching the silverette's attention. "Want me to call you a plateau?"

Steven blinked. Well. _This_ was an unexpected line of conversation. "A plateau?" he repeated tenderly, half-believing that he must have heard wrong.

Brendan took a deep breath, then offered a nervous smile, his fingers drumming together in a show of his anxiety. "It's the highest form of... _flattery."_

A single undignified snort made it out from Steven's mouth before he plastered his hand over it, muffling any further sounds. Wow. _Wow. _Was it really that widespread of a practice to cheer him up using terrible rock puns? "You know, you and May are a lot alike," he chuckled. "And I think there are some higher forms of flattery than calling someone a large landmass, Brendan."

Brendan seemed to contemplate this for a second. "Like... um..." He looked down bashfully, then reluctantly glanced back up. "...you rock?"

This time, Steven was able to stifle the chortle before it escaped, pressing the back of his hand firmly against his mouth to mask the huge grin that had taken over his face. "Wow. _Wow. _That has to have been the single worst rock pun I've ever heard in my life," he admitted. His smile only grew. "Nice going. It's so not-funny that it's actually hilarious. Any more for me?"

Looking up again, suddenly and inexplicably dead serious, Brendan remarked, "You're very gneiss."

That was it. Not even the lightning-fast hand of Steven Stone himself was able to contain it. He burst out into laughter, having been deprived of the common sensation for so long that even _that_ pun could break him down. After a few moments, Brendan lost it as well, snorting before falling into hysterics just like the "silver-haired dreamboat". They didn't even notice when Steven placed a hand on the bed's railing for support, getting closer than he'd dared to before. They were too busy laughing and laughing and _laughing _at the worst collection of puns they'd ever composed in their collective lives.

Mood whiplash should have struck them hard, staggering them emotionally. And, in a way, it did. But Steven didn't care about any of that. He'd already gotten over it because he needed to. Now, he could feel those wounds—those belt lashes on his soul—start to heal and scab over, finally stopping their incessant deluge of crimson.

He was over it.

Not entirely _really _over it, of course. Most of it was still just that same "over it because I need to be"; the not-really-over-it kind of over it.

But he was getting there.

That would do for now.

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><p><em>I... am <strong>not<strong> a fan of this chapter, to be honest. But that's beside the point. It's currently *checks the time* 4:13 AM and I've already written and posted a little over 14,000 words today, including this. No time to edit. MUST SLEEP._

_Next time on _Ultimatum! _May comes back and Phone Guy spills the beans, which I know I said was gonna happen in this chapter but it didn't fit 'cause it's already well over 4.5 K words! The true culprits are apprehended by Steven, May, and... Brendan?! What's the meaning behind these antics? Am I just rambling incessently because it's *checks time* 4:15 AM? Probably! Find out in... Chapter Ten!_


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